"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the Captain when he had read the letter through a second time, "but he may be one of the friends Treves ought to get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to call on him to-morrow."
Manton was thoughtful for a moment.
"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about? Treves's past life is a blank to me:"
"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm, "you are playing a part; you are not such a fool as not to play it well. I admit there are certain little precautions you may find it wise to take. In the first place, you might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate handwriting. You might also keep in mind that Treves is over-strung, lacking in will-power, and so much a victim of the cocaine habit that he would do anything, short of murder, to get the drug when the craving is upon him. As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of memory when occasion arises."
Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and the thought crossed his mind that there was a good deal more cleverness behind Gilbert's amiable exterior than he had at first realised. He forthwith decided to go to town that night. London always held a vivid attraction for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it since his journey through its streets in an ambulance on his return from France. Some weeks in hospital had followed that visit, then had come his transference to the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head. And now, with returned health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances, he was to visit London again.
Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the letter, had demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock. The hour of John's arrival was eight, and he was in a hurry. He was impatient to plunge into whatever adventure awaited him. Without bothering to engage a room for the night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at Waterloo Station, and set out to find St. George's Square. He arrived at the corner of the square, the Embankment corner, at precisely eight-thirty. The square's decorous, solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes struck him as gloomy in the extreme. The only individual upon the long strip of pavement which ran the length of the west side of the square was himself. His footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.
It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately. In the first place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to see if it were possible to judge of the house's occupants by its exterior. This thought occupied his mind, when a taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within half a dozen yards of him. The taxi had stopped behind him, and its occupant had alighted.
"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in a cultured accent.
The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door. The young man who had alighted hurried forward, passed John, and continued down the square. Without paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was tall, that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut, that his light grey felt hat was of expensive quality, and that the pearl in his tie-pin was also, if genuine, of exceptional value. He was of John's height and age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush moustache. His features were large and heavy-boned, without being harsh. Two things John noticed as he hurried past; one was that he carried a silk-lined light overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a "service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.
"Invalided from the army," thought John. "All the same, he doesn't look as if there was much the matter with him."