This was precisely what Ayscough had expected; so far, so good; his own prescience was proving sure.
"Anything wrong, mister?" asked the driver.
"There may be," said Ayscough. "Well—you picked him up there, and drove him straight to the mortuary?"
"No—I didn't," said the man. "We made a call first. Euston. He went in there, and, I should say, went to the left luggage office, 'cause he came back again with a small suit-case—just a little 'un. Then we went on to that mortuary."
Euston! A small suit-case! More facts—Ayscough made notes of them.
"Well," he said, "and when you drove away from the mortuary, where did you go then?"
"Oxford Circus," answered the driver, "set him down—his orders—right opposite the Tube Station—t'other side of the street."
"Did you see which way he went—then?" enquired Ayscough.
"I did. Straight along Oxford Street—Tottenham Court Road way," said the driver, "carrying his suitcase—which it was, as I say, on'y a little 'un—and walking very fast. Last I see of him was that, guv'nor."
Ayscough went away and got back to more pretentious regions. He was dead tired and weary with his night's work, and glad to drop in at an early-opened coffee-shop and get some breakfast. While he ate and drank a boy came in with the first editions of the newspapers. Ayscough picked one up—and immediately saw staring headlines:—