His sister, of course, did not understand. She had heard nothing of the pursuit and its curious sequel.
"Do you mean it is one of the cars which these men use?" she whispered breathlessly.
"Yes. I'll explain later. But what impudence! The scoundrels have not even changed the number plate."
Unquestionably, the number of the gray landaulet now within a few feet of them was XY 1314. Theydon stooped, opened a dressing case lying at his feet, and took out the automatic pistol placed there by Bates. He put it in the right-hand pocket of his coat.
"Now, I'll reconnoiter," he said, and opened the door. The taxi driver was already gazing curiously in at his fares, wondering why one or both did not alight.
"Be ready to start the instant I want you," said Theydon to the man, and he strolled past the gray car, with every sense alert, every muscle braced. If Wong Li Fu were seated inside he would cover him with the pistol and hold him there until the police came, or shoot him dead if he offered any resistance.
Fortunately, therefore, all things considered, the interior of the car was absolutely empty, save for a copy of the Times on the back seat. Even the presence of the newspaper was significant. In that issue should have appeared Forbes's reply to "Y. M." which Furneaux had suppressed as unnecessary.
There was a chauffeur at the wheel—no Chinaman, but a tightly-buttoned and black-legginged young Englishman—in fact, the real thing in chauffeurs.
"Whose car is this?" demanded Theydon.
"It belongs to the Chinese Embassy, sir," said the man, answering civilly enough, but not unnaturally showing some surprise at the curt question.