"There's no such thing as a noisy gentleman." Ezra P. Hipps rapped the butt of his automatic on the table top. "You can keep the cross-talking for the automobile," he said. "We're through here--step out." As they moved toward the door Laurence slipped a hand through Richard's arm. "My dear old fellow," he said, "if you only knew how distasteful all this is to me." Richard drew his arm away sharply. "So's that to me," he said, brushing his sleeve with the deliberate will to offend. Then he turned and bowed to Auriole. "Your friends are amusing but I'm afraid they are going to waste a lot of time. Are you coming our way?" CHAPTER 10. NERVES. The clocks were striking seven when Anthony Barraclough descended the stairs of the flats and hailed a taxi. The street was deserted save for a policeman and an old hag who was sorting over the contents of a dustbin outside the adjoining house. She shot a quick glance at Barraclough and broke into a cackle of thin laughter. "Didn't take you long to come up in the world," she piped. "Always thought you were a bit of a fraud." Barraclough gasped. The disappointment was so cruel. "You are making a mistake," he said and opened the taxi door. "You've had a shave, that's all, but, bless you, that don't deceive me." "Look here----" he began. "You don't want to be recognised, my dear. I can easily forget, you know, if I'm encouraged." She stretched out a filthy clawlike hand. There was something queer in her manner--a difference from the rank and file of Van Diest's regiment. Clearly, too, her poverty was genuine. With a little tact her allegiance might be diverted. He pulled a note case from his pocket and detached a fiver. "Take that," he said, "and if you want more----" He rattled off Lord Almont's address in Park Lane. "Save my soul!" gasped the old woman. "Are you crazy? Didn't expect more'n a florin. Bless your pretty heart. You must be badly frightened of something." But Barraclough waited for no more. He jumped into the taxi with the words 'Westminster Bridge' and drove away, swearing to himself. "Of all rotten luck. Yet I can't help feeling she didn't belong to that gang after all. Wonder if I've made an almighty fool of myself." For the first time in his life his nerves were beginning to fray. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather seat of the cab and, despite the chill of early morning, his brow was hot and clammy. "Likely enough it was just a begging stunt." He put his head out of the window and said 'Waterloo Station.' A sudden memory persuaded him to glance above his head and reassure himself no other passenger was concealed upon the roof. The action in itself was fresh evidence of nerves. "Must pull myself together," he said. "Those infernal hours in the wine cupboard have shaken me up."