"Gray? Now, that's near it," said Mole. "I wonder if it could be Gray! Never seen the man myself, but a friend of mine in South Africa asked me to find him if I could when I got home. Is there a man here named Gray?"
"Down in the office," said the man.
"Ah! What sort of a' chap is he, now? I didn't want to see him especially, I just want——"
"Tommy!"
A yell came from the yard below.
"Hallo!" said the whiskered man, shuffling to the goods door that overlooked the yard. "Hallo there!"
There was no response.
"Here you are," he said suddenly to Mole. "That's Gray, going up the yard. Tail coat—see! Going out to lunch."
"Good," said Mole. "I think I'll go after him."
He scuttled down the stairs, and reached the street just as Gray turned up a court on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. Like a bloodhound, Mole followed him. Along Queen Victoria Street went the pair, the guileless Gray in front, his relentless pursuer twenty paces behind. Gray stopped at the windows of a typewriting establishment; Mole became absorbed in a new system of drainage displayed at an estate agent's. Gray went on a bit further, and stopped again; Mole did the same. Presently Gray, having dived into a passage, came out in Cannon Street and entered a restaurant; Mole waited long enough to stow away his pipe and muffler, turn down his collar and set the cloth cap at a proper elevation, and then followed.