‘’Ere you are, sir,’ they heard him say cheerfully. ‘Your friend won’t be long. Said ’e’d be round just before twelve. I shouldn’t stand out there,’ he went on tactfully, as the man showed a disposition to look about him. ‘I’m always ’aving cars swing in ’ere without looking where they’re going. I can’t stop ’em. It’s dangerous you know. That’s right. Come inside.’
As the two figures disappeared, a third, moving rapidly with quick, nervous steps, hurried in out of the darkness.
The three men in the car caught a glimpse of him as he passed into the garage. It was Whitby himself.
‘Shall I start the engine?’ murmured Prenderby.
Martin put a warning hand on his.
‘Wait till they start theirs,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Michael trod softly on the starter and the Riley began to purr.
‘Keep back, see which way they turn, and then after them,’ Martin whispered sharply. ‘Hullo! Here they come!’
Even as he spoke there was the soft rustle of wheels on the concrete and then the curious top-heavy old car glided softly and gently into the road, taking the direction of Wanstead, away from the city.
Prenderby dropped in the clutch and the Riley slipped out of its hiding-place and darted out in pursuit, a graceful silver fish amid the traffic.