He ran a hand across his face, then tapped a well-bound packet suggestively.
“All set,” he said, looking at himself in a glass. “By Jove! George Mott or Arthur Hilton wouldn’t know me!”
Wrapping a long mackintosh about his slender form, Fay threw open the door and led the way to the boat-deck.
“We’ll stand here,” he said to Rake and Yeader. “The ship is almost in. Now play your parts. Look out for a Gray taxi.”
The ship snugged against the dock, under pressure from two snorting tugs. Steam plumed aft the giant funnels. A bell clanged its final message to the engine-room. A gangplank was raised in the gloom. It steadied and swung inboard.
“Come!” cried Fay; “Follow me!”
The way led down through a companion, along a luggage-littered deck and past the second officer, who gave the signal that they could descend the gangplank.
Fay shaded his face from the Central Office men at the foot of the plank. He turned and motioned for Rake and Yeader. They hurried over the splintered dock and reached the first of the shore throng to meet the incoming passengers.
“Go ahead!” said Fay to Yeader. “Lug the bag and find the taxi. Tell the driver you’re from the British Banking Commission. Pile on all the Cockney you know.”