Davis handed over the desired article, and a few minutes afterward, leaving his car in the gutter, Colin hurried up the steps of St. Christopher's and passed in through the swing doors.
On catching sight of him the porter stepped out from his box.
"Telegram for you, sir," he announced. "Come in about a quarter of an hour ago."
Colin paused beneath the big centre light and, ripping open the envelope, pulled out its contents.
The message was short but very much to the point:
"Please call at the Red Lodge to-morrow three-thirty.—CARTER."
CHAPTER THREE
In the days when a young and promising draper, called Mr. John Barker, had recently opened a small shop in the High Street, Kensington, Campden Hill was a singularly attractive place to live in. The favourite resort of affluent artists, retired judges, and other persons of culture and dignity, it still managed to retain a semi-rural tranquillity unknown to any other part of central London.
Time, however, which has dealt nobly with Mr. Barker, has unfortunately robbed the district of most of its former charm. Of the old-fashioned houses which stood formerly in their own pleasant grounds only a sadly thinned remnant now survive. Tucked away in odd corners, amid an ever-encroaching flood of "desirable modern residences," they seem to wait sadly for the hour when, in a cloud of dust and mortar, the relentless tapping of the pick serves for their funeral bell.