My God! and he has him! He will question him! The interior of China—a seething pot, Petrie! They had to stop the leakage of information. He is here for that.”
The car pulled up with a jerk that pitched me out of my seat, and the chauffeur leaped to the road and ran ahead. Smith was out in a trice, as the man, who had run up to a constable, came racing back.
“Jump in, sir—jump in!” he cried, his eyes bright with the lust of the chase; “they are making for Battersea!”
And we were off again.
Through the empty streets we roared on. A place of gasometers and desolate waste lots slipped behind and we were in a narrow way where gates of yards and a few lowly houses faced upon a prospect of high blank wall.
“Thames on our right,” said Smith, peering ahead. “His rathole is by the river as usual. Hi!”—he grabbed up the speaking-tube—“Stop! Stop!”
The limousine swung in to the narrow sidewalk, and pulled up close by a yard gate. I, too, had seen our quarry—a long, low bodied car, showing no inside lights. It had turned the next corner, where a street lamp shone greenly, not a hundred yards ahead.
Smith leaped out, and I followed him.
“That must be a cul de sac,” he said, and turned to the eager-eyed chauffeur. “Run back to that last turning,” he ordered, “and wait there, out of sight. Bring the car up when you hear a police-whistle.”
The man looked disappointed, but did not question the order. As he began to back away, Smith grasped me by the arm and drew me forward.
“We must get to that corner,” he said, “and see where the car stands, without showing ourselves.”
CHAPTER III. THE WIRE JACKET
I suppose we were not more than a dozen paces from the lamp when we heard the thudding of the motor. The car was backing out!
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