"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you will tell Mr. Vernon that the Reverend Harold Hawke called."
"Yes, sare," replied the expert motor-cyclist, whom I knew to be one of the clever gang. And he pretended to scribble something upon a pad. He posed as a clerk perfectly, even to the shabbiness of his office-coat. He presented the appearance of a poor, under-paid foreign clerk, of whom there are thousands in the City of London.
Standing in such a position that old Mr. Vernon could not see my face, I conversed with the Italian a few moments longer as I wished to make some further observations. What I saw surprised me, for there seemed every evidence that a bona fide trade was actually conducted there.
The shadow across the private office had puzzled me. I entertained a strong suspicion that old Vernon was within that room, and the man, Egisto Bertini, had orders to tell all strangers that his master was absent.
If he feared arrest—as no doubt he did, knowing that Lola might make a statement to the police—then it was but natural that he would not see any stranger.
No. I watched Bertini very closely as I chatted with him, feeling assured that he was lying.
So I apologized for my intrusion, as a good curate should do, and descended the dark, narrow stairs with the firm conviction that Gregory Vernon was actually in his office.
In the street I walked leisurely towards Holborn, fearing to hurry lest the crafty old man should be watching my departure. Having turned the corner, however, I rushed to the nearest telephone and got on to Rayner.
He answered me quickly, and I gave him instructions to dress instantly as a poor, half-starved labourer—for my several suits of disguise fitted him—and to meet me at the earliest moment at Holborn Circus, outside Wallis's shop.
"All right, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "I'll be there inside half an hour."