“Here, wait,” said Timothy.
He felt in his pocket.
“If you’re lying, it is a plausible lie and one that pleases me,” he said. “This will salve my conscience.”
He slipped two notes into the man’s hands.
Chelwyn was speechless for a moment. Then he asked:
“And where are you staying in London, Mr. Anderson?”
“At the Brussell Hotel.”
“At the Brussell Hotel,” repeated the other, “I’ll remember that. I shall hear if anything is going on and I’ll ’phone you. You’re a gentleman, Mr. Anderson.”
“So Mr. Brown said,” remarked Timothy and drove off, feeling unusually cheerful.
If Timothy could be cheerful under the depressing conditions which prevailed on the night of his arrival in London, he was a veritable pattern of cheer. A drizzling rain was falling as the taxi squeaked its way through a labyrinth of mean streets. He had glimpses of wretched-looking people, grotesque of shape and unreal, through the rain-blurred window of the cab.