One cold night, while loitering in the darkness beside the railings of the Park, Kennedy saw Ortmann emerge from the big portico of his house and walk to Hyde Park Corner, where he hailed a taxi and drove down Grosvenor Gardens. Within a few moments Kennedy was in another taxi closely following. They crossed Westminster Bridge and turned to the right, in the direction of Vauxhall. Then, on arriving at Clapham Junction station, Kennedy, discerning Ortmann's destination to be the house in Park Road, Wandsworth Common, where at times he lived as the humble Mr Horton, the retired tradesman, he dismissed his taxi and walked the remainder of the distance. When he arrived before the house, he saw a light in Horton's room, and hardly had he halted opposite ere the figure of a man in a black overcoat and soft felt hat came along and ascended the steps to the door. It was the so-called Dutch pastor, Theodore Drost. The latter had not been admitted more than five minutes when another visitor, a short, thick-set bearded man, having the appearance of a workman, probably an engineer, passed by, hesitated, looked at the house inquiringly, and then went up the steps and rang the bell. He also quickly gained admission, and therefore it seemed plain that a conference was being held there that night. The bearded man was a complete stranger, hence Kennedy resolved to follow him when he reappeared, and try to establish his identity. Being known to Drost and Ortmann, it was always both difficult and dangerous for him to follow either too closely. But with a stranger it was different. Before twenty-four hours had passed, the Flight-Commander had ascertained a number of interesting facts. The bearded man was known as Arthur Cole, and was an electrician employed at one of the County Council power-stations. He lived in Tenison Street, close to Waterloo Station, and was a widower. Next day, on making further inquiry of shops in the vicinity, a woman who kept a newspaper-shop exclaimed: "I may be mistaken, sir, but I don't believe much in that there Mr Cole." "Why?" asked Kennedy quickly. "Well, 'e's lived 'ere some years, you know, and before the war I used to order for 'im a German newspaper--the Berliner-Something." "The _Berliner-Tageblatt_ it was, I expect." "Yes. That's the paper, sir," said the woman. "'E used to be very fond of it, till I couldn't get it any more." "Then he may be German?" The woman bent over the narrow counter of her small establishment and whispered: "I'm quite certain 'e is, sir." That night Seymour saw his well-beloved in the theatre between the acts, and told her the result of his inquiries. Then he returned to his vigil and watched the dingy house in Tenison Street, one of those drab London streets in which the sun never seems to shine.