"Victoria Station," he called out loudly to Tippitt. "Shan't be long now, mate. Another shower a-comin', better cover up these bloomin' 'oles," and he drew the tarpaulin over the rest of the roof. "Let 'em stoo a bit now," he muttered to himself. "That'll make 'em 'ot."
He had been conscious of suppressed coughing and sneezing from within, which he detected by placing his ear near the holes in the roof.
Opposite the Houses of Parliament, a lady came up to Bindle and handed him a key. "This is the key of the pantechnicon," she said loudly. "You are not to undo it until you reach Number 110, Downing Street. Do you understand?"
"Right-o!" remarked Bindle, "I got it."
"Now don't forget!" said the lady, and she disappeared swiftly in the direction of Victoria Street.
"No, I ain't goin' to forget," murmured Bindle to himself, "an' I shouldn't be surprised if there was others wot ain't goin' to forget either."
He watched the lady who had given him the key well out of sight, then slipping off the tail-board of the van he walked swiftly along Whitehall.
A few yards south of Downing Street, an inspector of police was meditatively contemplating the flow of traffic north and south.
Bindle went up to him. "Pretend that I'm askin' the way, sir. I'm most likely bein' watched. I got a van wot's supposed to contain carved-oak furniture for Mr. Llewellyn John, 110, Downing Street. I think it's full o' suffragettes goin' to raid 'im. You get your men round there, the van'll be up in two ticks. Now point as if you was showing me Downing Street."
The inspector was a man of quick decision and, looking keenly at Bindle, decided that he was to be trusted.