The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas Grant looked a very fine fellow.
Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat in North Kensington.
Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth, and was out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station detective, and turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of London's main thoroughfares.

There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds, whose manifest concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad wrapping of a very good cigar.
"Ah! How goes it, Charles ?" cried the big man heartily, affecting to be aware of Furneaux's presence when the latter had walked nearly a hundred yards down a comparatively deserted street.
"What's wrong with the toofa ?" inquired Furneaux testily.
"My own carelessness.

Stupid things, bands on cigars....

Well, what's the rush ?" "There's a train to Steynholme at five o'clock.

I want you to take hold.
I must have help.