It was the course which logic
dictated. Until he had attempted the task earlier in the day, he
could not have supposed it so difficult to trace the country
address of a well-known figure like that of the Persian.
This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it,
was also determined to inspect the premises. But for such a
stroke of good luck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy,
he could scarcely have hoped. His course now lay clearly before
him. And presently, laying his pipe aside, he took up a telephone
which stood upon the dressing table and rang up a garage with
which he had an account.
"Hello, is that you, Mason?" he said. "Have the racer to meet me
at seven o'clock, half-way along Pall Mall."
Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing every
precaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the
intervening time at one of his clubs, from which, having made an
early dinner, he set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A
rakish-looking gray car resembling a giant torpedo was
approaching slowly from the direction of Buckingham Palace. The
driver pulled up as Paul Harley stepped into the road, and
following a brief conversation Harley set out westward,
performing a detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a
little town with which he was only slightly acquainted. No
evidence of espionage could he detect, but the note of danger
spoke intimately to his inner consciousness; so that when, the
metropolis left behind, he found himself in the hilly Surrey
countryside, more than once he pulled up, sitting silent for a
while and listening intently.
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