As he moved swiftly, his eyes searched the throng across the pavement. He wondered if a shadow would be there. He was dealing with not only the Yard, which was too solicitous for his welfare, but also with a determined clique that had already attempted to obtain the key to the cipher. Dutch Gus had searched for Saidee Isaacs and had found her house in Richmond Hill. The German crook, or one of his gang, had held the trail—even to London Bridge Station. Fay felt gripped in the skeins of an enterprise which might have almost any conclusion.
He was not surprised to see the tail-light and then the polished tonneau of the little, black motor where it stood before the station. He crossed the street and stared at the driver. He went on and into the train shed.
A youthful-appearing figure in a long tan coat and green hat passed him, stooped, fingered the top button of a fawn-colored spat and said tersely:
“Carry high, Chester. There’s your man over by the booking office. Look out for Dutch Gus and remember your promise.�
Fay set down his black bag, grasped the lapels of his tweed coat and coughed to hide his astonishment.
The figure in the tan coat was Saidee Isaacs. She finished with the spat, straightened, twinkled over the floor and darted out toward the motor car.
MacKeenon worked through the waiting passengers and touched Fay on the arm.
“This way, mon,� he said. “Ye are punctual.�
Fay was still staring at the doorway through which
Saidee Isaacs had vanished. He turned and picked up the bag. He glanced at the inspector’s long face. Upon it was written a sly satisfaction that one sees on old dogs that have cornered their quarry.