"Good-bye," I said, "and good luck." And then, going out, I closed the door behind me.
Walking along the corridor of the hotel, I reached the side entrance by which we had come in. A man in livery, who was on duty, at once stepped forward.
"Taxi, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes," I said; "I'll have a taxi."
I felt quite cool, though my heart was beating a little faster than usual. This sort of thing was certainly more entertaining than hunting reluctant capitalists, or even hanging round the docks trying to fix a free passage to the States.
When the cab rolled up, I handed a shilling to the obliging gentleman in livery, and gave the driver Northcote's address in Park Lane. Then I stepped inside, and with a pleasant feeling of exhilaration settled myself back on the comfortably cushioned seat.
I had done it now—there could be no doubt about that! Unless I broke my word to Northcote, I was in for about as exciting a time as the most enterprising spirit could wish for. Apart from the cheerful prospect of finding a knife between my ribs at any hour of the day or night, I was faced with the truly colossal task of keeping up another man's identity for three weeks!
I began to wonder again whether it was not probable that Northcote was a lunatic, or that he was playing some stupendous practical joke at my expense. I ran over in my mind the whole of our interview, from the moment when he had waylaid me. There was certainly no sign of madness about him, apart from his amazing proposals; and if the whole thing were a jest, well, it promised to be a pretty expensive one for its author. Besides that, I felt sure that the man was in danger of his life, or at all events believed himself to be so. There was no acting about the sudden flash with which his hand had travelled to his pocket in that second on the Embankment.
Pulling out the paper which he had given me, I lit a wax match and began to study his plan of the house. It seemed simple enough. I only had to walk upstairs, and my bedroom was facing me on the other side of the landing, the windows apparently looking out into the Park. That knowledge, at all events, promised to be sufficient for the night. I could reserve anything in the nature of further exploration until the next morning.
By this time we had reached Hyde Park corner, and, crossing the road, the driver turned to the right up Park Lane. Beyond knowing the number, I had not the remotest notion where Northcote lived, and I had something of a shock when we stopped quite suddenly outside an imposing-looking mansion only about a hundred yards above Apsley House.