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Page 46
Leaning forward in order to peer through the front window was the
dark-faced man whom he had detected on the Embankment!
"Quite correct," murmured Harley, dryly. "Exactly what I should
have done."
The spy, knowing himself discovered, had abandoned his own car in
favour of a passing taxicab, and in the latter had taken up the
pursuit.
Paul Harley lighted a cigarette. Oddly enough, he was aware of a
feeling of great relief. In the first place, his sixth sense had
been triumphantly vindicated; and, in the second place, his
hitherto shadowy enemies, with their seemingly supernatural
methods, had been unmasked. At least they were human, almost
incredibly clever, but of no more than ordinary flesh and blood.
The contest had developed into open warfare. Harley's accurate
knowledge of London had enabled him to locate No. 236 South
Lambeth Road without recourse to a guide, and now, walking on
past the big gas works and the railway station, he turned under
the dark arches and pressed on to where a row of unprepossessing
dwellings extended in uniform ugliness from a partly demolished
building to a patch of waste ground.
That the house was being watched he did not doubt. In fact, he no
longer believed subterfuge to be of any avail. He was dealing
with dangerously accomplished criminals. How clever they were he
had yet to learn; and it was only his keen intuitive which at
this juncture enabled him to score a point over his cunning
opponents.
He walked quite openly up the dilapidated steps to the door of
No. 236, and was about to seize the dirty iron knocker when the
door opened suddenly and a girl came out. She was dressed neatly
and wore a pseudo fashionable hat from which a heavy figured veil
depended so as almost to hide her features. She was carrying a
bulging cane grip secured by a brown leather strap.
Seeing Harley on the step, she paused for a moment, then,
recovering herself:
"Ellen!" she shouted down the dim passageway revealed by the
opening of the door. "Somebody to see you."
Leaving the door open, she hurried past the visitor with averted
face. It was well done, and, thus disguised by the thick veil,
another man than Paul Harley might have failed to recognize one
of whom he had never had more than an imperfect glimpse. But if
Paul Harley's memory did not avail him greatly, his unerring
instinct never failed.
He grasped the girl's arm. "One moment, Miss Jones," he said,
quietly, "it is you I am here to see!"
The girl turned angrily, snatching her arm from his grasp.
"You've made a mistake, haven't you?" she cried, furiously. "I
don't know you and I don't want to!"
"Be good enough to step inside again. Don't make a scene. If you
behave yourself, you have nothing to fear. But I want to talk to
you."
He extended his arm to detain her. But she thrust it aside. "My
boy's waiting round the corner!" she said, viciously. "Just see
what he'll do when I tell him!"
"Step inside," repeated Harley, quietly. "Or accompany me to
Kennington Lane Police Station--whichever you think would be the
more amusing."
"What d'you mean!" blustered the girl. "You can't kid me. I
haven't done anything."
"Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my
questions--either here or at the station. Which shall it be?"
He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when
the girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his
only chance of defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten
her. Delicate measures would be wasted upon such a character. But
even as the girl, flinging herself sullenly about, returned into
the passage, he found himself admiring the resourcefulness of his
unknown enemies.
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