I remembered Northcote's advice that I should refuse, but some obstinate streak at the back of my nature suddenly asserted itself. I think perhaps it was a feeling that Northcote's suspicions concerning the sleek young man in front of me were based on very good grounds that really decided me. I don't like running away from danger.
"When do you expect me?" I inquired carelessly.
Something very like a momentary flash of triumph leaped into his eyes.
"How about Thursday?" he suggested. "There's a good train from Liverpool Street at 2.30, and I'll meet you at Woodford."
"Thursday would do all right," I said.
"We shall have a pretty festive crowd," he went on, knocking some ash off his coat. "Sangatte and York have both promised to come, and I think George Vane will most likely turn up. And then, of course, there'll be the Baradells." He looked at me with a sort of sly half-grin as he mentioned the latter name. Evidently my acquaintance with the Baradells had some special significance.
"That sounds tolerable," I said.
"At all events," he finished, "we ought to have some decent shooting. Reece tells me that the partridges are good, and there are always plenty of duck about."
I nodded thoughtfully. It struck me that if there was going to be any shooting I should be devilish careful whom I stood next.
I had just arrived at this sound conclusion when, through the open window, I saw a beautifully appointed limousine car glide up to the door.