Promising to return in the course of the evening with his things and having received exact instructions as to the shortest way to Holland Park Avenue, Desmond took his leave. He felt that he had embarked on a wild goose chase; for, even if the fugitives had made their way to Mrs. Malplaquet’s (which was more than doubtful) he imagined they would take care to lie very low so that his chances of coming across any of them were of the most meager.
Following the directions he had received, he made his way easily back to the main road. He halted under a street-lamp to catch the eye of any passing taxi which might happen to be disengaged. A dirty faced man in a greasy old suit and a spotted handkerchief knotted about his throat came slouching along the pavement, keeping close to the wall. On catching sight of Desmond’s face by the light of the lamp, he stopped irresolutely and then advanced slowly towards him.
“Excuse me, sir!” he said falteringly.
Desmond looked round at the sound of the man’s voice and seeing a typical street loafer, asked the fellow to get him a taxi.
“It is Captain Okewood,” said the loafer, “you don’t remember me, sir?”
Desmond looked at the dirty, rather haggard face with its unshaven chin and shook his head.
“I don’t think I do,” he answered, “though you seem to know my name!”
The vagrant fumbled in his pocket for a minute and extracting a scrap of paper, unfolded it and held it out to Desmond.
“That’s me, sir!” he said, “and, oh, sir! if you would kindly help me with a word of good advice, just for old times’ sake, I’d be very grateful!”
Desmond took the scrap of paper which the man tendered and held it so as to catch the rays of the lamp. It was a fragment torn from a newspaper. He had hardly set eyes on the cutting than he stretched out his hand to the vagrant.