At the corner of Dean’s Yard, not a hundred yards from where the taxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had been put into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to his rooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St. James’s.
So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to the telephone on his writing-table and asked for “trunk.” Ten minutes later he spoke to somebody.
“Get in your car, and come here at once!” he said. “There’s not an instant to be lost. I’ll wait up for you, but don’t delay a moment. I can’t talk over the ’phone, but the situation is very serious. Bring a suit-case. You may have to go to the Continent by the nine o’clock train in the morning.”
He listened attentively to the reply.
“Eh—what? Oh!—yes. I sent a boy with a letter to Knightsbridge station. She’s got away all right. Do get here as quickly as you can—won’t you? Leave your car in some garage, and walk here. Don’t stop the car outside. I’ll leave the hall-door ajar for you. No—I can’t tell you anything more over the ’phone—I really can’t.”
Chapter Eleven.
Mainly Concerns Mr Stent.
James Farloe hung up the telephone receiver, and, lighting a cigar, sat down to think, while wailing for his visitor.