“I can’t get back just yet, George,” he said. “You’ll receive a registered letter from me to-morrow. Act upon it and use your own discretion.”
I promised him I would and then he rang off.
CHAPTER VI
AT THREE-EIGHTEEN A.M.
The letter brought to my bedside next morning contained some curious instructions, namely, to take the car on the following Saturday to Flamborough Head, arriving at a spot he named about a quarter of a mile from the lighthouse, where I would be accosted by a Dutch sailor, who would ask me if I were Mr. Skelton. I was not to fear treachery, but to reply in the affirmative and drive him through the night to an address he gave me in Providence Court, a turning off Dean Street, Soho.
That address was sufficient for me! I had once before, at Rayne’s orders, driven a stranger to Dean Street and conducted him to that house. It was no doubt a harbor of refuge for foreign criminals in London, but was kept by an apparently respectable Italian who carried on a small grocery shop in Old Compton Street.
As I was ordered, I duly arrived on that wild spot on the Yorkshire coast. It blew half a gale, the wind howling about the car as I sat with only the red rearlight on, waiting in patience.
Very soon a short, thick-set man with decidedly evil face and seafaring aspect, emerged from the shadows and asked in broken English whether I was Mr. Skelton. I replied that I was and bade him jump in, and then, switching on the big headlights, turned the car in the direction of London.