of his errand. Perhaps, also, they felt a silent and growing
desire for lunch, for the hours crept long past the normal luncheon
hour, and the long roads of the North London suburbs seemed to
shoot out into length after length like an infernal telescope. It
was one of those journeys on which a man perpetually feels that
now at last he must have come to the end of the universe, and then
finds he has only come to the beginning of Tufnell Park. London
died away in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs, and then was
unaccountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant
hotels. It was like passing through thirteen separate vulgar
cities all just touching each other. But though the winter
twilight was already threatening the road ahead of them, the
Parisian detective still sat silent and watchful, eyeing the
frontage of the streets that slid by on either side. By the time
they had left Camden Town behind, the policemen were nearly
asleep; at least, they gave something like a jump as Valentin
leapt erect, struck a hand on each man's shoulder, and shouted to
the driver to stop.

They tumbled down the steps into the road without realising
why they had been dislodged; when they looked round for
enlightenment they found Valentin triumphantly pointing his finger
towards a window on the left side of the road. It was a large
window, forming part of the long facade of a gilt and palatial
public-house; it was the part reserved for respectable dining, and
labelled "Restaurant." This window, like all the rest along the
frontage of the hotel, was of frosted and figured glass; but in
the middle of it was a big, black smash, like a star in the ice.

"Our cue at last," cried Valentin, waving his stick; "the