The inspector who had cared to study that furtive, isolated figure, could not have failed to mark it for that of a hunted man.
At Kennington Gate the ’bus made a halt. Soames glanced at the clock on the corner. It was close upon one a.m. Where in heaven’s name should he go? What a fool he had been to come to this district where he was known!
Stay! There was one man in London, surely, who must be almost as keenly interested in the fate of Luke Soames as Luke Soames himself…Gianapolis!
Soames sprang up and hurried off the ’bus. No public telephone box would be available at that hour, but dire need spurred his slow mind and also lent him assurance. He entered the office of the taxicab depot on the next corner, and, from the man whom he found in charge, solicited and obtained the favor of using the telephone. Lifting the receiver, he asked for East 18642.
The seconds that elapsed, now, were as hours of deathly suspense to the man at the telephone. If the number should be engaged!…If the exchange could get no reply!…
“Hullo!” said a nasal voice—“who is it?”
“It is Soames—and I want to speak to Mr. King!”
He lowered his tone as much as possible, almost whispering his own name. He knew the voice which had answered him; it was the same that he
