Naturally, he never dreamed that that quiet and respectable house, high on the beautiful Surrey hills, was the abode of a woman for whom the police of Europe were everywhere searching.
His thoughts all through breakfast were of The Sparrow—the great criminal, who was his friend. Hence, after they rose, he strolled into the morning-room with his hostess, and said:
“I’ll have to go to town again this morning. I have an urgent letter. Can Mead take me?”
“Certainly,” was the woman’s reply. “I have to make a call at Worplesdon this afternoon, and Louise is going with me. But Mead can be back before then to take us.”
So half an hour later Hugh was driving up the steep High Street of Guildford on his way to London.
He alighted in Piccadilly, at the end of Half Moon Street, soon after eleven, and, dismissing Mead, made his way to Ellerston Street to the house of Mr. George Peters.
He rang the bell at the old-fashioned mansion, and a few moments later the door was opened by the manservant he had previously seen.
In an instant the servant recognized the visitor.
“Mr. Peters will not be in for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Would you care to wait, sir?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied. “I want to see him very urgently.”