CHAPTER XXIV
“I’m bothered if I know,” returned Narkom helplessly. “Gad! I’m at my wits’ end. We seem to be as far as ever from any clue to that devilish pair and unless you can suggest something——” He finished the sentence by taking off his hat, and looking up at Cleek hopefully, and patting his bald spot with a handkerchief which diffused a more or less agreeable odour of the latest Parisian perfume.
“H’m!” said Cleek, reflectively. “We might cross the Heath and have a look round Gospel Oak, if you like. It’s a goodish bit of a walk and I’ve no idea that it will result in anything, I frankly admit, but it is one of the few places we have not tried, so we might have a go at that if you approve.”
“By James! yes. The very thing. There’s always a chance, you know, so long as it’s a district we’ve never done. Gospel Oak it is, then. And look here—I’ll tell you what. You just stop here a bit and wait for me, old chap, while I nip back to the house and ask Sir Mawson’s permission to use his telephone—to ring up the Yard as usual, you know, and tell them in what quarter we’re operating, in case there should be reason to send anybody out to find me in a hurry. Back with you in no time and then we’ll be off to Gospel Oak like a shot.”
“Right you are. I’ll stop here under the trees and indulge in a few comforting whiffs while you are about it. Get along!”
Narkom paused a moment to grip his cuff between finger tips and palm, and run his coat sleeve round the shiny surface of his “topper,” then shook out his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket, jerked down his waistcoat and gave it one or two sharp flicks with the backs of his nails, and before a second diffusion of scent had evaporated, or the whimsical twist it called to Cleek’s lips had entirely vanished, the scene presented nothing more striking than an ordinary man leaning back against a tree and engaged in scratching a match on the side of an ordinary wooden matchbox. The Yard’s Gentleman had gone.
It was full ten minutes later when he lurched into view again, coming down the garden path at top speed, with one hand on his hat’s crown and the other holding the flapping skirts of his frock coat together, and Cleek could tell from the expression of his round, pink face that something of importance had occurred.
It had—and he blurted it out in an outburst of joyous excitement the moment they again stood together. The search for Dutch Ella and Diamond Nick was at an end. The police of Paris had cabled news of their location and arrest that very morning in the French capital, and would hold them under lock and key until the necessary preliminaries were over, relative to their deportation as undesirables, and their return to Canada.
“The news arrived less than an hour ago,” he finished, “and that wideawake young beggar, Lennard, thought it was so important that I ought to know it as soon as possible, so he hopped on to the limousine and put off as fast as he could streak it. He’s up here in this district now—this minute—hunting for us. Come on! let’s go and find him. By James! it’s a ripping end to the business—what?”
“That depends,” replied Cleek without much enthusiasm. “Which limousine is Lennard using to-day? The new blue one?”