The man, having inspected it carefully, pocketed the half-crown. “It won't take long,” he suggested; “me and the barrow's ready. And it won't cost you nothink, seein' as how you've paid me.”
“No time.”
Without more ado, he made a dash for the nearest taxi. “As fast as you like,” he told the driver; “the faster, the bigger your fare.”
He fled out of the station at a forbidden rate, but after half a mile the taxi halted against the curb. Lowering the window, he looked out.
“What's the matter? Something wrong with your engine?”
“We ain't been follered. You can calm down,” the driver assured him soothingly. “Wot's wrong is that you ain't told me no address.”
“Stupid of me! The American Embassy.”
At the Embassy, having explained his errand, he was requested to wait. Then, rather to his surprise, instead of having his letters handed to him, he was shown into a handsome room where, at the far end, a gray-haired man was seated, sorting papers behind a large mahogany table.
Hindwood crossed the room and held out his hand.
“I'm Philip Hindwood, the railroad expert. I guess you've heard of me. I called in case there was some mail for me. I had no intention of troubling you personally.”