"Hannassay's was his own fault," he said. "The man refused protection---said he could look after himself, and that he wouldn't have his holiday messed up with a lot of detectives hanging round. He had a compartment to himself--I saw him off--and it was a corridor train. He must have been easy." They waited to hear the result of the doctor's operation, for there was clearly nothing they could do for the moment. An all-station call for Morini had been out for days without result, and unless their luck changed the only hope was that Storm would be able to hold up the gunman. A butler came in with a tray of sandwiches and offered them the use of the syphon and decanter in the corner. They talked on odd subjects, and it was just before they received their report that Bill Kennedy opened up a new line of thought to Mr. Teal. "What we really need in a case like this is the German Razzia," he remarked. "If a wanted man's patient and really ingenious, he's as hard to find as water in the desert. All he has to do is to retire to the house of a friend, or to a fairly big residential hotel, and never budge out of doors. By simply lying doggo instead of trying to make a bolt for it, he could have the police rubbering till all's blue, and never be in danger." A few minutes later the doctor arrived. There was a hope--yes. Marker was a healthy man in good condition, and stood as much chance of pulling round as anyone. It had been a nasty wound, and the illness would be a ticklish business, but it would not necessarily be fatal. "Well, that's a relief," Kennedy said as they returned to the street. "But it don't let us out, laddie. Morini must have been rattled--according to Captain Arden, that dago's one of the slickest gunmen in the world." Towards eight o'clock that evening, when Storm had failed to put in his promised appearance, Inspector Teal huddled into his mackintosh and set out to walk down the Embankment towards the restaurant in New Bridge Street where he occasionally fed. He was a man who never complained of the vilest weather, seeming even to revel in it; which was fortunate for him, for the rain was pouring down in stinging clouds, drumming on the macadam like a stage effect. The sky was black and thunderous, and from time to time a crackling reverberation omened the continuation of the downpour. Such few pedestrians as there were scurried along under umbrellas with stifled curses and a drowned-rat-like aspect, but Teal plodded along with his shoulders squared and his face defiantly thrust out to meet the lash of the storm. He was within sight of Blackfriars Bridge when he first noticed the tail lamp of a stationary car, and wondered that anyone provided with such a luxury should dally by the way on such a night. As he came abreast he saw that the driver was poring over a map, and as Teal passed he was hailed.