THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER
On quitting the singular Oriental club, Harley had first raced off to a public telephone, where he had spoken for some time—as I now divined—to Scotland Yard. For when we presently arrived at the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, I was surprised to find Inspector Wessex awaiting us. Leaning out of the cab window:
“Yes?” called Harley excitedly. “Was I right?”
“You were, Mr. Harley,” answered Wessex, who seemed to be no less excited than my companion. “I got the man's reply an hour ago.”
“I knew it!” said Harley shortly. “Get in, Wessex; we haven't a minute to waste.”
The Inspector joined us in the cab, having first given instructions to the chauffeur. As we set out once more:
“You have had very little time to make the necessary arrangements,” continued my friend.
“Time enough,” replied Wessex. “They will not be expecting us.”
“I'm not so sure of it. One of the biggest villains in the civilized world recognized me three minutes before I called you up and then made good his escape. However, there is at least a fighting chance.”
Little more was said from that moment until the end of the drive, both my companions seeming to be consumed by an intense eagerness to reach our destination. At last the cab drew up in a deserted street. I had rather lost my bearings; but I knew that we were once more somewhere in the Chinatown area, and: