Mr. Stott nearly fainted. Wellington Brown! The man whose portrait had been in the newspapers; the man for whom the police were searching.
The other said something in a voice which did not reach the balcony.
“I am not threatening,” said the strident voice of Wellington Brown.
They walked up the steps to the door of Mayfield and disappeared from view.
Mr. Stott rose with knees that trembled. In the shortest space of time he was at the telephone. Carver’s number he knew, he had been on to him several times in connection with the unfortunate little disagreement he had had with the police. But Carver’s number was out of order. The operator could not get any reply she said.
Strong as was Mr. Stott’s repugnance to assist the police in the lawful execution of their duty, he dashed back to his bedroom, pulled on his trousers over his pyjama-legs and with trembling fingers buttoned himself up. There was no time to get into boots and it was in his bedroom slippers that he shuffled down the street in search of a cab, looking back fearfully from time to time lest the mysterious men who had entered Mayfield should be upon his track with murder in their hearts.
After an unconscionable time a taxi-cab came past and Mr. Stott flung himself into the interior.
“Central police station,” he gasped, “quick! Double fare if you get me there in ten minutes.”
He knew that was the usual thing to say in such circumstances. As even a slow taxi could have covered the distance in five, Mr. Stott’s instructions were misplaced.
“They’re at it again,” he quavered as he fell into Carver’s arms.