He was admitted and the door was closed. Then I passed the house, and saw that it was a good-sized one, probably let in sets of chambers, as are many of the houses in that vicinity. I walked on to Jermyn Street and stood at the corner, lighting my pipe. A white-faced man passed--a wretched, decrepit old fellow whose hollow cough told its own tale, and who offered me matches. I bought a box, and began to chat with him. All loafers are fond of a gossip, and I did this in order not to appear to the watchful constable, who was trying the locked doors of shops in the vicinity, that I was loitering. A well-dressed man may linger as long as he likes, but one who appears as a mechanic, or as a shabby idler, is very soon moved on unless he, in turn, is, a "nark," or police-informer. The old man related to me a pitiable story of misfortune which might or might not be true, but it served to while away the time, while I, on my part, kept an ever-watchful vigilance upon the door just down the street. I must have been there nearly an hour, for the traffic at the end of the street in Piccadilly had awakened, and every moment the lights of hansoms and taxis were flitting past. The theatres were just over, and the pleasure-seekers were already westward bound. At length, just as I had grown inexpressibly weary, the door I was watching reopened, and from it emerged Flynn, accompanied by a man in evening dress with a white muffler around his neck and wearing a crush-hat--a man whom, in an instant, I recognised as Leonard Langton. He blew a whistle for a taxi; but, seeing their intention was to drive away, I sped along into Piccadilly, and, finding one, gave the man swift instructions to wait until they entered a conveyance, and then to follow them. The driver, noticing my clothes, looked askance at me, but I added: "They owe me some money for work done on a car, and I mean to see where they go." There is a clannishness about motor-men, therefore the instant I had told my story he declared himself ready to assist me. And as I sat back in the cab Langton and his friend, who had now gained Piccadilly, passed in search of a cab. In a few moments they found one, and soon we had turned the corner of St. James's Street, and were running down to Pall Mall, where we turned to the left, and after a sharp drive, swung into the station yard at Charing Cross. Here the pair alighted, and, watching, I saw them stroll upon the arrival platform where, according to the chalked figures on the board, the boat-train from the Continent, already over an hour late, was now expected. The usual crowd was waiting there, friends of passengers, porters, Customs officers, and the women agents of the various female rescue societies--an expectant crowd which, year in, year out, never differs. The pair halted in earnest conversation about half-way along the platform, while I strolled slowly at some distance away, with my eyes upon them.