"There's Jeanjean! Take him up, but be careful. Got your revolver?"
"Trust me, sir," Rayner laughed. "I don't forget Cromer."
"Be careful," I whispered, and next instant we had separated.
I saw Jeanjean gain the end of the drab thoroughfare and glance around apprehensively. He was dressed smartly in a well-cut suit of blue serge and wore a grey hat of soft felt, and a pair of yellow wash-leather gloves, like those poor Craig had habitually affected. His quick, shifty eyes searched everywhere for a few seconds, then he turned into the bustle of the traffic in Holborn and walked westward in the direction of Oxford Street.
A moment later Rayner, a poor wretched-looking figure, penurious and ill, crossed from the opposite side of the road and lounged slowly after Jeanjean until I lost them amidst the crowd.
I was divided in my intentions, for if I followed the pair I should miss the Italian clerk, and as he undoubtedly was a member of the interesting association, I felt that it would be judicious to follow and ascertain where he lived.
For nearly two hours, nevertheless, my vigilance remained unrewarded. Office-boys came forth from the various houses laden with letters, and middle-aged clerks carried in black bags packets of precious stones in order to insure them for transmission by post. Then as the dusk crept on, the offices and workshops in the vicinity emptied their workers, who hurried home by train or motor-bus, while in a constant stream came weary Italians, painfully and patiently dragging piano-organs and ice-cream barrows on their way to their quarters at the other end of the road, their day's wanderings over.
A perfect panorama of London life passed by me as I stood there watching in vain.
At length, about seven o'clock, when it had grown dark and the street-lamps had been lit, I saw the figure of the Italian emerge from the door, and turning his back towards me, he walked in the direction of Clerkenwell Road.
In eagerness I took a few quick steps after him, but halted as a sudden suggestion arose within me. If Jeanjean had been there it was for consultation with his chief—the man he regarded as his master—the master-mind of that daring and dangerous association. Was it possible, therefore, that these two men had left the place at long intervals, because of the suspicion in which they held the curate who had called for a subscription? Was it possible that Gregory Vernon, alias Gregory, and alias a dozen other names, no doubt, was still safe in his high-up dingy little office wherein lay concealed stolen gems of untold value?