" His own portrait was not flattering. The sun had
etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas Grant looked
a very fine fellow.
Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to
overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat
in North Kensington.
Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth,
and was out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station
detective, and turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of
London's main thoroughfares. There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds,
whose manifest concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad
wrapping of a very good cigar.
"Ah! How goes it, Charles?" cried the big man heartily, affecting to be
aware of Furneaux's presence when the latter had walked nearly a hundred
yards down a comparatively deserted street.
"What's wrong with the toofa?" inquired Furneaux testily.
"My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars.... Well, what's
the rush?"
"There's a train to Steynholme at five o'clock. I want you to take hold.
I must have help. Like your cigar, this case has come unstuck.
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