Philip was thrown into the sea on a Tuesday. Jocky Mason reached London on Wednesday, and kept his appointment with Inspector Bradley on Thursday evening.
The inspector received him graciously, thus chasing from the ex-convict's mind a lurking suspicion that matters were awry. There is a curious sympathy between the police and well-known criminals. They meet with friendliness and exchange pleasantries, as a watchdog might fraternize with a wolf in off hours.
But Mason had no responsive smile or ready quip.
"What's up?" he demanded, morosely. "You sent for me. Here I am. I would have brought my ticket sooner if you hadn't written."
"All right, Mason. Keep your wool on. Do you remember Superintendent Robinson?"
"Him that was inspector in Whitechapel when I was put away? Rather."
"Well, some friends of yours have been inquiring from him as to your whereabouts. He sent a message round, and I promised that you should meet them if you showed up. I was half afraid you had bolted to the States."
"Friends! I have no friends."
"Oh, yes, you have—very dear friends, indeed."
"Then where are they?"