“The car will be sent for,” said Durant, and the other nodded.
There was no time lost in weighing in and checking the luggage, which was sent on to the Customs shed and put through perfunctorily, as it would be put through at the other end. In three minutes they were crossing to the passport control office. The Russian went through first; and as they waited, Larson jogged Durant’s elbow, indicating a man who sat beside the passport officer.
“Scotland Yard,” he said under his breath. “Now watch him!”
He followed the Russian, laid down his passport, waited. Though it must have been a tense moment for him, with his neck in the balance, Larson appeared quite cool. The Scotland Yard man glanced at the passport, glanced up at him, then leaned back and gazed out across the flying field, without interest. Stamped and returned, Larson picked up his passport and went on. Durant followed, and was put through without comment.
The three men stepped through the little door, and found their guide awaiting them. But as they followed out to where the machines were idling, the Russian fell back and joined Durant, in savage bewilderment.
“What’s it mean?” he snapped in French. “That one?” And he jerked his thumb toward Larson. Then Durant recollected that he must have seen the other’s altered appearance for the first time.
“Getting ready for Paris, I suppose,” he said with a laugh.
“Ar-r-rgh!” growled Michael Korin. “Think I’m a fool?”
The man strode on, but in his powerful features was stormy mingling of anger, suspicion, fear. Durant shrugged—what matter, now? He had already determined on his course, rightly estimating the Russian as one of Makoff’s chief aides, who must be put out of the way now or later. It might better be now. Only the fact of Larson’s predicament, indeed, had prevented Durant from putting the London police on the trail of Michael Korin.
When they reached the De Haviland, the pilot was already in place, testing his engine—a youngish man with twinkling blue eyes and a stubby yellow mustache. Their guide turned.