“Balding—I used to be a waiter at the Junior University Club, sir.”
“Yes, of course. I think your idea is an excellent one. The fact is, I’m leaving London on a ... mission, and I have to be very careful ... thousands of pounds are involved.”
“I see, sir.”
Balding was so serious as to be almost plaintive. He had met gentlemen at the hotel in similar circumstances, only they had said that they were in the secret service.
“Thank you, sir ... very kind of you, I’m sure.”
Balding slipped the note into his waistcoat pocket indifferently.
“I’ll take this now, sir.” He lifted the grip from the bed. “Will you be coming by the first or the second continental on Friday? Ostend four-thirty, Paris eight-thirty.”
“Four-thirty,” said Gordon.
The die was cast. He gathered the second and smaller grip, paid his bill at the desk and went out. It was chiming the quarter before eleven when he entered Victoria Station; the train left at twelve. There was no need to rush for seats. He had his Pullman reservation in his pocket. Happily the day was raw, the sun and rain alternately, blustering wind all the time. He could turn up the collar of his greatcoat. On the indicator board he read:
“Wind N. N. W. Sea moderate to rough. Visibility good.”