“Give me at once a description of the young lady,” Mr. Hardaway demanded.
Quest drew a photograph from his pocket and passed it silently over. The official glanced at it and down at some papers which lay before him. Then he looked at the clock.
“Mr. Quest,” he said, “it is just possible that your visit here has been an exceedingly opportune one.”
He snatched his hat from a rack and took Quest by the arm.
“Come along with me,” he continued. “We’ll talk as we go.”
They entered a taxi and drove off westwards.
“Mr. Quest,” he went on, “for two months we have been on the track of a man and a woman whom we strongly suspect of having decoyed half a dozen perfectly respectable young women, and shipped them out to South America.”
“The White Slave Traffic!” Quest gasped.
“Something of the sort,” Hardaway admitted. “Well, we’ve been closing the net around this interesting couple, and last night I had information brought to me upon which we are acting this afternoon. We’ve had them watched and it seems that they were sitting in a tea place about three o’clock yesterday afternoon, when a young woman entered who was obviously a stranger to London. You see, the time fits in exactly, if your assistant decided to stop on her way to Kensington and get some tea. She asked the woman at the desk the best means of getting to West Kensington without taking a taxi-cab. Her description tallies exactly with the photograph you have shown me. The woman whom my men were watching addressed her and offered to show her the way. They left the place together. My men followed them. The house has been watched ever since and we are raiding it this afternoon. You and I will just be in time.”
“You’ve left her there since yesterday afternoon? You’ve left her there all night?” Quest exclaimed. “My God!”