“We’ll let him go upstairs if that’s his intention,” whispered the inspector with satisfaction.
Again the newcomer had the same difficulty with the latch, but at length the door opened, letting in a flood of grey light into the hall, and then closed again. We had drawn back behind the half-closed door of the room wherein we had kept our night vigil, and standing there scarcely daring to breathe, we watched a dark-haired young man in a brown tweed suit ascend the stairs. He wore a thick travelling coat, a flat cloth cap, and carried a well-worn brown handbag. Evidently he had just come off a night journey, for he sighed wearily as humming to himself he ascended those fatal stairs.
Fortunately we had removed the settle back to its place, but on arrival on the first landing we heard him halt and pull a creaking lever somewhere—the mechanism by which the six stairs were held fast and secure. Then he went on up to the top and entered that well-furnished little sitting-room.
For ten minutes we allowed him to remain there undisturbed—“Just to allow him to settle himself,” as Pickering whispered grimly. Then one by one the officers crept noiselessly up until we had assembled on the landing outside the closed door.
Then, of a sudden, Pickering drew his revolver, threw open the door, and the sleek-haired newcomer was revealed.
He fell back as though he had received a blow.
“We are police officers,” explained Pickering, “and I arrest you.”
Then we saw that from his bag he had taken out a suit of clothes and some linen, which were flung upon a chair, while upon the table were two packets of German bank-notes, amounting to a considerable sum. A third packet he still held in his hand, for he had been in the act of counting them when surprised.
His dark eyes met mine, and the fellow started.
“I know you!” he cried to me. “You are not a detective at any rate. You are Wilfrid Hughes.”