Glancing neither right nor left, he entered the car, and
presently they were proceeding slowly with the stream of traffic
in the Strand. "Pull up at the Savoy," he said suddenly through
the tube.

The car slowed down in that little bay which contains the
entrance to the hotel, and Harley stared fixedly out of the rear
window, observing the occupants of all other cars and cabs which
were following. For three minutes or more he remained there
watching. "Go on," he directed.

Again they proceeded westward and, half-way along Piccadilly,
"Stop at the Ritz," came the order.

The car pulled up before the colonnade and Harley, stepping out,
dismissed the man and entered the hotel, walked through to the
side entrance, and directed a porter to get him a taxicab. In
this he proceeded to the house of Sir Charles Abingdon. He had
been seeking to learn whether he was followed, but in none of the
faces he had scrutinized had he detected any interest in himself,
so that his idea that whoever was watching Sir Charles in all
probability would have transferred attention to himself remained
no more than an idea. For all he had gained by his tactics, Sir
Charles's theory might be no more than a delusion after all.

The house of Sir Charles Abingdon was one of those small,
discreet establishments, the very neatness of whose appointments
inspires respect for the occupant. If anything had occurred
during the journey to suggest to Harley that Sir Charles was