“It’s a fairly complete outfit,” he said.
“You mean a get-away outfit? That’s what I think,” said Elk; “and I’d like to bet that one of these bags is stored at every railway terminus in London!”
The clothing bore no marks, the Browning was of Belgian manufacture, whilst the passport might, or might not, have been forged, though the blank on which it was written was obviously genuine. (A later inquiry put through to the Foreign Office revealed the fact that it had not been officially issued.)
Elk packed away the outfit into the bag.
“I shall take these to the Yard. Perhaps they’ll be called for—but more likely they won’t.”
Elk came out of the Inspector’s office on to the broad platform, wondering what it would be best to do. Should he leave the bag in the cloak-room and set a man to watch? . . . That would be a little futile, for nobody could call unless he had the ticket, and it would mean employing a good officer for nothing. He decided in the end to take the bag to the Yard and hand it over for a more thorough inspection.
One of the Northern expresses had just pulled into the station, two hours late, due to a breakdown on the line. Elk stood looking idly at the stream of passengers passing out through the barrier, and, so watching, he saw a familiar face. His mind being occupied with this, the familiarity did not force itself upon his attention until the man he had recognized had passed out of view. It was John Bennett—a furtive, hurrying figure, with his battered suit-case in his hand, a dark felt hat pulled over his eyes.
Elk strolled across to the barrier where a station official was standing.
“Where does this train come from?”
“Aberdeen, sir.”