"You come along, guv'nor," returned Joe with enthusiasm. "There's gen'rally one or two useful lads messin' arahnd, and we'll fix you up with some bloke who can take a decent punch."
They surrendered their tickets to the porter on duty, and, having passed through the doorway, Colin stopped for a moment on the pavement outside to light himself a cigarette.
He was in the act of throwing away the match when he happened to glance across the street. As he did so he caught sight of two men who were standing in the doorway of a small public house opposite. To an ordinary observer there was nothing particularly striking about their appearance, except for the fact that one of them was unusually well dressed. If they had been Indians in full war-paint, however, the effect upon Colin could hardly have been more remarkable. He remained stock still, his eyes riveted upon the taller of the pair. Although the latter's face was half turned away, there could be no possible mistake. It was Fenton himself, the very man of all others who chiefly occupied his thoughts.
"Anything wrong, guv'nor?" inquired Joe curiously.
The sound of his companion's voice restored Colin's faculties at once. With a quick movement he caught hold of the other's arm, and, drawing him along the pavement for a few paces, pulled up behind the shelter of a deserted cart.
"Joe," he said, "you see those two fellows over there in the door of the pub?"
Mr. Moss's lieutenant squinted furtively round the backboard.
"Wot abaht 'em?" he demanded.
"Have you any idea who either of them is?"
"Dunno the torf," was the answer. "T'other one's a bloke they call 'Spike' Cooper."