He took a square of paper out of his pocket; the edges were blackened; one corner had been burnt off.
“I found this in his clothing. It must have been driven there when the bomb detonated,” said the surgeon.
Elk smoothed out the paper and read:
“With the compliments of Number Seven.”
Carefully he folded the paper.
“I’ll take this,” he said, and put it tenderly away in the interior of his spectacle case. “Do you believe in hunches, doctor?”
“Do you mean premonitions?” smiled the surgeon. “To an extent I do.”
Elk nodded.
“I have a hunch that I’m going to meet Number Seven—very shortly,” he said.