He saw an old man, white-bearded and grey-haired, carrying his hat in his hand as he walked. His rough homespun clothing, his collarless shirt open at the throat, the plaid scarf around his neck, all these Poltavo saw through his powerful glasses and was satisfied.
This was not the kind of man to play tricks, he smiled to himself. Poltavo's precautions had been of an elaborate nature. Three roads led to the downs, and in positions at equal distances from where he stood he had placed three cars. He was ready for all emergencies. If he had to fly, then whichever way of escape was necessary would bring him to a means of placing a distance between himself and any possible pursuer.
The old man came nearer. Poltavo made a hasty but narrow survey of the messenger.
"Good," he said.
He walked to meet the old man.
"You have a letter for me?" he inquired.
The other glanced at him suspiciously.
"Name?" he asked gruffly.
"My name," said the smiling Pole, "is Poltavo."
Slowly the messenger groped in his pockets and produced a heavy package. "You've got to give me something," he said.