The detectives of Dibbs and Dubbs usually began their sentry-go at Brunswick Terrace as the clock struck eight. On the morning following George Early's second encounter with Caroli, Mole was at his post at six. Looking over the bedroom curtains at half past, George noted the fact and swore softly. He completed his toilet, and, picking up the shabby portmanteau he had packed the night before, made his way to the back door.
The sleek top hat and frock coat of business had disappeared, and George stood arrayed in the loudest of check suits, covered by a loose light coat; on his head was a cloth cap. In this array he made his way out of the back gate, traversed the passage sacred to the tradesmen who supplied Brunswick Terrace, and emerged in a mews, which led to a main thoroughfare at right angles to that where the patient Mole kept watch.
George peeped cautiously round the corner: the coast was clear. He hailed a disconsolate cabman, who had all but given up hope of a fare, and drove off to Victoria.
Arrived at the station, some strategy was necessary to make sure that the detectives were really evaded. George narrowly watched the movements of the men who loitered about the platform, and made feints of leaving the station to see if any would follow him. Finding that nobody took any interest in his movements, he approached the booking clerk and ordered his ticket in a whisper. The train and George went off soon after seven without any further excitement than the frantic barking of a dog, that had been left behind.
It was perfectly obvious that George Early intended to checkmate his enemies by discreetly withdrawing from London for a time. In the seclusion of the country he would be able to formulate some plan of campaign by which both lawyers and blackmailers would find that they had met their match.
George got out at a small station forty miles or so down the line. The only other passenger to alight was a young woman with three paper parcels, who had evidently too many personal troubles to be concerned in watching the movements of any young man. Having inquired of the one porter the whereabouts of the Wheatsheaf Inn, the fugitive chief of Fairbrothers' had the satisfaction of finding a three-mile walk before him.
The landlord of the Wheatsheaf was not troubled much with visitors, although he advertised his house as the most popular in the country. George found himself to be the one and only guest.
"What is there to do about here?" he asked, when he had disposed of a substantial meal.
"Do?" said the landlord, evasively. "It depends on what you want to do."
"I'm not particular," said George. "I've come down for a bit of a change. Any fishing here?"