"Gentleman downstairs, sir, very anxious to see you at once," he said, when Allerdyke opened it. "His card, sir."
Allerdyke gave one glance at the card—a plain bit of pasteboard on which one word had been hastily pencilled—
CHETTLE.
CHAPTER XX
NUMBER FIFTY-THREE
Chettle!—whom he had left only that morning in Hull, two hundred miles away, both of them agreed that the next step was still unseen, and that immediate action was yet problematical. Something had surely happened to bring Chettle up to town and to him.
"Show Mr. Chettle up here at once," he said to the waiter. "And here—bring a small decanter of whisky and a syphon of soda-water and glasses. Be sharp with 'em."
He pulled on a dressing-gown when the man had gone, and, tying its cord about his waist, went a step or two into the corridor to look out for his visitor. A few minutes elapsed; then the lift came up, and the waiter, killing two birds with one stone, appeared again, escorting the detective and carrying a tray. And Allerdyke, with a sly wink at Chettle, greeted him unconcernedly, ushered him into his room and chatted about nothing until the waiter had gone away. Then he turned on him eagerly.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Something, of course! Aught new?"
For answer Chettle thrust his hand inside his overcoat and brought out a small package, wrapped in cartridge paper, and sealed.