A man’s face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily—
“Hulloa! Sorry I’m late, old chap!”
Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.
Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.
The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.
The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years—the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!
My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!
Another conspiracy was afoot against me!