Grant took his leave, warned Williams to be ready to accompany him next morning to Canterbury, arranged for a substitute in the absence of them both, and went home and slept for ten hours. In the morning, very early, he and Williams left a London not yet awake and arrived in a Canterbury shrouded in the smoke of breakfast.
The accommodation address proved to be, as Grant had expected, a small newsagent in a side street. Grant considered it, and said: "I don't suppose our friend will show up this end of the day, but one never knows. You go across to the pub over the way, engage that room above the saloon door, and have breakfast sent up to you. Don't leave the window, and keep an eye on everyone who comes. I'm going inside. When I want you I'll sign from the shop window."
"Aren't you going to have breakfast, sir?"
"I've had it. You can order lunch for one o'clock, though. It doesn't look the kind of place that would have a chop in the house."
Grant lingered until he saw Williams come to the upper window. Then he turned into the small shop. A round bald man with a heavy black mustache was transferring cartons of cigarettes from a cardboard box to a glass case.
"Good morning. Are you Mr. Rickett?"
"That's me," Mr. Rickett said, with caution.
"I understand that you sometimes use these premises as an accommodation address?"
Mr. Rickett looked him over. His experienced eye asked, Customer or police? and decided correctly.
"And what if I do? Nothing wrong in that, is there?"