He withdrew a letter-case from his breast pocket the moment he had finished his communication to Von Berger. He leant back from his desk, and, one by one, turned over the papers the case contained. Finally he selected a letter written on thin paper, in a close, spidery hand. He read this letter through twice. His face was smiling as he read, but his eyes remained unchanging. Finally he laid the letter down and copied into a notebook two addresses which had been carefully detailed in it. He read them over and verified them. One was in Kensington, and the other was described as being near a well-known market town in the county of Buckinghamshire. With this matter accomplished he glanced at the clock. Should he wait for lunch in the hotel, or should he run into the West End and regale himself at one of the fashionable restaurants? Finally the attractions of the latter triumphed in their appeal to his gastronomic senses and he telephoned down to the hall porter for a cab. Von Salzinger had lunched well. He sat back in the taxi-cab in the attitude of a man enjoying the satisfaction of a more than well-lined stomach. Even, for the moment, as he leisurely smoked a great Corona cigar, and reflected on the quart bottle of Pol Roger '06 he had consumed, he felt that the position was not without its compensations, and, after all, in certain departments, the French and the long-legged English were not wholly to be despised. Such was his satisfaction that his eyes were half closed by the time the cab jerked to a standstill outside a modest block of flats in Kensington. But he was alert in a second, for that was the man. His purpose at all times dominated, and only in the moments of leisure did he permit himself the indulgence he craved. He negotiated with the cabman for a possible continuance of the journey, and passed into the building, his alertness and activity in no way impaired by the amplitude of his luncheon. Five minutes later he returned with a cloud of annoyance depressing his heavy brows. He strutted up to the driver and gave his orders. "We'll go on to Wednesford," he said, in his heavy guttural English. "You must have petrol, for I return to-night by eight o'clock. What is it, the distance? Twenty-five miles? So. It is easy to do." The Londoner acquiesced without enthusiasm, and Von Salzinger reëntered the cab, and slammed the door closed behind him. That was his mood. He had been prepared to make the journey, but he was irritated that he had to do so. In twenty minutes the cab had threaded its way on to the Oxford Road, and, regardless of all speed limit, raced on towards the famous Chiltern Hills.