In three taxis we converged upon Long's Hotel; Brasset and Jodey in the first; the Chief Constable and his kit bag in the second; Fitz and myself in the third. A very respectable blizzard was raging; the streets of the metropolis were in a truly horrid condition, wholly unfit for man or beast; and the atmosphere had the peculiar raw chill of a thoroughly disagreeable winter's night in London. But at every yard we slopped precariously through the half-melted slush of the streets, Fitz seemed to wax more Napoleonic. He was not in any sense aggressive; there was not a trace of undue mental or moral elevation, yet he was the possessor of a subtle quality that seemed to render him equal to any occasion.
"There is just one thing may undo us," he confessed to me.
"Fate?"
"No; to my mind fate is never your master, if you really mean to be master of it. But there may be a spy. Von Arlenberg is as cunning as a fox. And if he thinks I may have something to say in the matter, he will take care that nothing is done without his knowledge. Probably we are being followed."
To test his grounds for this suspicion, Fitz suddenly ordered the driver to stop. He thrust his head out of the window, and then an instant later told our Jehu to drive on.
"Just as I thought," he said. "There is another taxi behind."
My companion became silent.
"Something will have to be done," he said. "It won't do for von Arlenberg to know too much."
During the remainder of the journey Fitz found not a word to say.
When we came to the quiet family hotel in Bond Street our leader seemed still preoccupied. Certainly he had grounds for his foreboding. A fourth taxi drew up behind the three vehicles we had chartered; and I observed that a man got out of it and, discharging his taxi, entered the hotel. As he passed me I was careful to note his appearance. He was a short, sallow, foreign-looking individual, with the collar of his overcoat turned up; a commonplace creature enough, who on most occasions would pass without remark.