The afternoon merged into evening as Tom and his friend sat silently waiting in the hotel, each immersed in his own reflections.
"What are we waiting for?" inquired Tom, at last. "Why don't you do something?"
Wallion vouchsafed no answer; he kept looking at the clock; it was getting dark. At eight McTuft appeared.
"At last," exclaimed Wallion, rising from his chair. "Where is Ferail?"
"Shall I report at length or will you simply question me?" replied the young Scotsman, curtly but pleasantly. "This man, Ferail, was the very devil for giving me trouble. I shadowed him in a car and he did only two things worth mentioning. At 6:30 he telephoned to Director Edward A. Dixon."
"To whom, did you say?" burst out Wallion.
"To Director E. A. Dixon," repeated McTuft.
"Elaine Robertson's employer," Wallion whispered to Tom, who sat silent and dumb-founded. "All seems turning out well, as you see. Now what more?"
"Ferail inquired whether the 'goods' had come. The answer seemed to satisfy him."
"So the 'goods' have arrived," observed Wallion, whose eyes glowed triumphantly, "and then?"