“Is that Soames?” spoke the sing-song voice of the Greek.

“Yes, yes!”

“Where are you?”

“At Kennington.”

“Are they following you?”

“No—­I don’t think so, at least; what am I to do?  Where am I to go?”

“Get to Globe Road—­near Stratford Bridge, East, without delay.  But whatever you do, see that you are not followed!  Globe Road is the turning immediately beyond the Railway Station.  It is not too late, perhaps, to get a ’bus or tram, for some part of the way, at any rate.  But even if the last is gone, don’t take a cab; walk.  When you get to Globe Road, pass down on the left-hand side, and, if necessary, right to the end.  Make sure you are not followed, then walk back again.  You will receive a signal from an open door.  Come right in.  Good-by.”

Soames replaced the receiver on the hook, uttering a long-drawn sigh of relief.  The arbiter of his fortunes had not failed him!

“Thank you very much!” he said to the man in charge of the office, who had been bending over his books and apparently taking not the slightest interest in the telephone conversation.  Soames placed twopence, the price of the call, on the desk.  “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He hastened out of the gate and across the road.  An electric tramcar which would bear him as far as the Elephant-and-Castle was on the point of starting from the corner.  Grip in hand, Soames boarded the car and mounted to the top deck.  He was in some doubt respecting his mode of travel from the next point onward, but the night was fine, even if he had to walk, and his reviving spirits would cheer him with visions of a golden future!

His money!—­That indeed was a bitter draught:  the loss of his hardly earned savings!  But he was now established—­linked by a common secret—­in partnership with Gianapolis; he was one of that mysterious, obviously wealthy group which arranged drafts on Paris—­which could afford to pay him some hundreds of pounds per annum for such a trifling service as juggling the mail!

Mr. King!—­If Gianapolis were only the servant, what a magnificent man of business must be hidden beneath the cognomen, Mr. King!  And he was about to meet that lord of mystery.  Fear and curiosity were oddly blended in the anticipation.

By great good fortune, Soames arrived at the Elephant-and-Castle in time to catch an eastward bound motor-’bus, a ’bus which would actually carry him to the end of Globe Road.  He took his seat on top, and with greater composure than he had known since his dramatic meeting with Gianapolis in Victoria Street, lighted one of Mr. Leroux’s cabanas (with which he invariably kept his case filled) and settled down to think about the future.