“Yes. Nothing’ll come out—as usual. But I don’t think we need worry much. He’s put the fear of God into everybody.”
“He was at Celia Cyril’s, all the same—at lunch to-day,” said the older man, getting up and mechanically settling a sheaf of paper on his table, as he prepared to go out. “His name’s not to get about, in spite of that. I don’t think he’ll go out much. You’ve had the division warned?”
“Johnson saw to that. They’ve got a plain clothes man both sides and another following.”
“That’s all right,” said the superior. “Going my way?”
“Yes.”
They took down their hats and coats from the lobby and sauntered off side by side till they came to the Horse Guards’ Parade, and so up the Duke of York’s Steps to the Club.
That same night a young and guileless constable of Division Phi, his head relieved of its preposterous helmet and his hands swinging at ease between his knees as he sat on a bench with betters, enjoying a brief and well-earned leisure, said: “That foreign millionaire at the Splendide, him as they call....”
“Never mind what they call him, me lad,” broke in a voice of authority, years and stripes, “the less you call him anything the better for you. Them’s orders.” And a deep silence reigned.