Durant joined him. Standing well back from a window, which overlooked the street, Larson pointed. No words were needed. Coming up the hill, and looking at the house with evident interest, was the man they had left trussed and gagged aboard the boat-train.
“Pinched!” said Larson.
“Not yet.” Durant turned. “Shut your door—get packed!”
He darted to the stairs. “Giles! Here—quick, man!”
Michael Korin came up on the jump, and Durant pulled him into his bedroom.
“Look at that man across the street. Know him?”
One look, and the Russian drew back, a gray pallor in his face.
“Sacred name of a dog!” he exclaimed. “Yes! That’s Sir John Brentwood himself—of Scotland Yard.”
Durant gripped him by the arm, hard. “All right. Brace up, now! He’s looking the place over—we have time to get away. Something’s slipped; perhaps they’re after you, perhaps after me. We’ll get our luggage aboard the car, drop Baronne Glincka downtown, drop Dardent and his wife, get out to Croydon and make the noon plane. Understand? I’ll telephone for bookings. Warn Dardent, get rid of the cook instantly, clear the place. Go!”
The man slipped away, obviously badly shaken by what he had seen. Durant turned into Larson’s room.