A quarter of an hour later they had placed the unconscious form of Sir Joseph in the car, and, bidding farewell to the three stalwart men, who were, no doubt, professional thieves from London, we started back swiftly through Farnham and Aldershot, thence by way of Reading and along the Bath Road to a lonely house somewhere outside Hounslow, where the American girl stopped me.
There the unconscious man was carried in, and while the others remained in the house—which I think had been taken furnished and specially for the purpose—I was ordered to return to London alone, which I did, most thankful to end that exciting night’s adventure.
On my return to the garage off the Tottenham Court Road at half-past three in the morning, the man on duty told me that a man’s voice had inquired for me about nine o’clock.
“He seemed very anxious indeed to find you. But he told me to give you a number—number ninety-nine! Sounds like a doctor, eh, sir?” remarked the man.
I stood aghast at the message.
“Are you sure that was the number?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. I wrote it down here. He gave a Mayfair telephone number,” and he showed me the note he had made.
It was a message from Rayne! That number was the one agreed upon by all of us as a signal that some extreme danger had occurred, and it became necessary for us all to keep apart and disperse.
I got into the car and drove out of the garage again, not knowing how to act. In Oxford Street, at that hour silent and deserted, I drew up, and, taking a piece of paper from my notebook, I wrote down the figures “99,” and, placing it in a small envelope which I fortunately found in my wallet, I addressed it to Madame Duperré, and left it with the night porter at the Carlton, urging him to give it to her immediately on her return.