"I like being a capitalist," I observed, as we stood for a moment on the step. "It's a much more restful life than the sea, and everybody one meets is so extraordinarily obliging."
Mr. Drayton chuckled appreciatively. "Wait till I've sent you in my bill," he retorted. "You'll have some excuse for feeling cynical then." He dived into his pocket and produced a card-case. "Here's the address of my club," he added, "in case you forget it. I must be off now, but I'll expect you at seven-thirty. Don't dress up and make yourself beautiful—come along just as you are."
With a friendly wave he disappeared amongst the traffic, while almost at the same moment a prowling taxi pulled up in the gutter. I moved forward and accosted the driver.
"Have you ever heard of a place called Angel Court, somewhere off Fleet Street?" I asked him.
He eyed me critically.
"Are you wantin' Inspector Campbell's office?" he enquired.
"Yes," I said. "Do you know him?"
He leaned across and opened the door. "Know 'im," he repeated rather scornfully. "Why, 'e pinched a bloke outer this very cab last March twelve-months. There ain't a taxi driver in London as don't know 'Foxy' Campbell."
Considerably impressed with this unexpected tribute to the Inspector's reputation, I climbed inside the vehicle. We sped away rapidly through a number of side turnings, coming out at last within a few yards of the bottom of Fleet Street. A moment later the taxi pulled up, and as I stepped out the driver jerked his thumb in the direction of a narrow archway.
"That's Hangel Court," he said. "You'll find the party you're looking for the second door on the right."