“There’ll be none,” Shannon gruffly informed him. “You can bank on that.”
“The number plates——”
“I left him changing them.”
“The position he is to take with the car——”
“He knows the very spot.”
“The signal——”
“Your flash light—he knows,” Shannon cut in again. “He’ll be watching for it.”
“And what he then must do?”
“The whole business. He has it down pat from A to Z.”
Graff settled back in his chair. He appeared satisfied with these forcible assurances. He fell to rubbing his hands, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph, a gleam and glitter so intense that Patsy Garvan felt that he was gazing at a madman.