Dick Gordon, who was also something of an organizer, watched the fight from the top of an omnibus, which, laden with policemen, had shadowed the van. He joined Elk after the excitement had subsided.
“Have you arrested anybody of importance?” he asked.
“It’s too early to say,” said Elk. “They look like ordinary tadpoles to me. I guess Litnov is in Wandsworth by now—I sent him in a closed police car before the van left.”
Arrived at Scotland Yard, he paraded the Frogs in two open ranks, watched, at a distance, by the curious crowd which packed both entrances. One by one he examined their wrists, and in every case the tattoo mark was present.
He finished his scrutiny at last, and his captives were herded into an inner yard under an armed guard.
“One man wants to speak to you, sir.”
The last file had disappeared when the officer in charge reported, and Elk exchanged a glance with his chief.
“See him,” said Dick. “We can’t afford to miss any information.”
A policeman brought the Frog to them—a tall man with a week’s growth of beard, poorly dressed and grimy. His battered hat was pulled down over his eyes, his powerful wrists visible beneath the sleeves of a jacket that was made for a smaller man.
“Well, Frog?” said Elk, glowering at him. “What’s your croak?”