The barrister regained the seclusion of the hansom.

“St John’s Mansions, Kensington,” he said to the driver, and then he curled up on the seat in the most uncomfortable attitude permitted by the construction of the vehicle.

On nearing his destination he stopped the cab at a convenient corner.

“I want you to wait here for my return,” he told the driver.

“How long will you be, sir?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes.”

“I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed.”

Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker.

Brett glanced around.  In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what the agents call “a good pull-up trade.”  He pointed to it.

“I think,” he said, “if you wait there it will be more comfortable for you and equally good for the horse.”

The cabby pocketed an interim tip with a grin.

“I’ve struck it rich to-day,” he murmured, as he disappeared through a swing door bearing the legend, “Tap,” in huge letters.

Meanwhile, Brett sauntered past St. John’s Mansions.  Across the road a man was leaning against the railings of a large garden, being deeply immersed in the columns of a sporting paper.

The barrister caught his eye and walked on.  A minute later Mr. Winter overtook him.

“Not a move here all day,” he said in disgust, “except Mrs. Jiro’s appearance with the perambulator.  She led me all round Kensington Gardens, and her only business was to air the baby and cram it with sponge-cakes.”

“Where is her husband?”

“In the house.  He hasn’t stirred out since yesterday’s visit to the Museum.”

“Who is looking after the place in your absence?”

“One of my men has taken a room over the paper shop opposite.  He has special charge of the Jap.  My second assistant is scraping and varnishing the door of No. 16 flat.  He sees every one who enters and leaves the place during the day.  If Mrs. Jiro comes out he has to follow her until he sees that I am on the job.”

“Good!  I want to talk matters over with you.  I have a cab waiting in a side street.”

“Why, sir, has anything special happened?”

A newsboy came running along shouting the late edition of the Evening News.  The barrister bought a paper and rapidly glanced through its contents.

“Here you are,” he said.  “Someone in that office has a good memory.”

The item which Brett pointed out to the detective read as follows:—­

    “ACCIDENT IN WHITEHALL.