He tapped his inside breast pocket, his sallow face assuming a ghastly hue. Then he laughed lightly, curled the ends of his mustache, and walked from the club library into the hall.
A cab was crawling past, and he hurried to the street.
“Oxford Circus!” he called to the driver, and jumped into the vehicle.
As he moved away he saw a man watching him, and he never forgot the strange look in his eyes. He shivered, and called himself a fool.
“It is my last throw,” he thought, “and I must keep my nerves steady. If I fail—exit! Pshaw! Why should I? The very alternative should give me confidence and strength.”
He left the cab at Oxford Circus, and strolled along in a leisurely manner until he reached a narrow court.
Here he paused momentarily, and glanced to the right and left. Again those eyes haunted him, but the man was not in the crowd. It was impossible.
Turning into the court, he walked, perhaps twenty paces, and then entered a foul-smelling hallway, almost as dark as night. He was evidently well acquainted with the place, for, without any hesitation, he stepped lightly up a flight of rickety stairs and knocked sharply at a door at the top.
It was opened by a middle-aged automaton, of powerful build, who stared dully at the visitor.
“Is Mr. Isaacs within, Bulger?” inquired Rivington.