Soon, too, it became apparent that Laburnum Road was not the goal. The taxicab rushed past Swiss Cottage and on to Finchley. Here it branched off to the north, and finally turned up a newly laid-out road.
Westerham called to Lowther to pull up at the corner, as he knew their destination must now be in sight.
So certain was Westerham that they were now nearing the goal that he left the car and walked on foot to the corner of the road. Just as he imagined would be the case, the taxicab had drawn up outside a neat, brand-new, red-bricked villa.
He dodged round the corner again, and hastily, lifted the car's bonnet. He called on Lowther to get down, and together the two men began to examine a sparking plug with wholly fictitious energy. The returning taxicab passed them at a good pace, the driver paying no heed either to them or to the car.
Westerham took a deep breath and withdrew his head from the covering bonnet.
“Come along, Lowther,” he said, “I fancy that the last act is about to begin.
“I wonder,” he added more to himself than to his companion, “whether Lady Kathleen is here?”
As he paused at the gate he clapped his hand to Lowther's hip-pocket and nodded with approval.
“Loaded?” he asked.
Lowther nodded.