On the panel had been stamped a small white frog—an exact replica of those he had seen that morning on the photographs that Dick Gordon had shown him. A squatting frog, slightly askew.
He touched it. The ink was still wet and showed on his finger. And then the strangest thing of all happened. The door opened suddenly, and a man of middle age appeared in the doorway. In his hand was a long-barrelled Browning, and it covered the detective’s heart.
“Put up your hands!” he said sharply. Then he stopped and stared at the detective.
Elk returned the gaze, speechless; for the elegantly dressed man who stood there was the hawk-faced pedlar he had seen in Whitehall!
The American was the first to recover. Not a muscle of his face moved, but Elk saw again that light of amusement in his eyes as he stepped back and opened the door still wider.
“Come right in, Mr. Elk,” he said, and, to the amazed lift-man; “It’s all right, Worth. I was practising a little joke on Mr. Elk.”
He closed the door behind him, and with a gesture beckoned the detective into a prettily furnished drawing-room. Elk went in, leaving the matter of the frog on the door for discussion later.
“We’re quite alone, Mr. Elk, so you needn’t lower your voice when you talk of my indiscretions. Will you smoke a cigar?”
Elk stretched out his fingers mechanically and selected a big Cabana.
“Unless I’m greatly mistaken, I saw you this morning,” he began.