them. On the crowded pavement there was little chance of his attracting their
notice, and he was anxious if possible to catch a word or two of their
conversation. In this he was completely foiled; they spoke low and the din of
the traffic drowned their voices effectually.
Just before the Bond Street Tube station they crossed the road, Tommy,
unperceived, faithfully at their heels, and entered the big Lyons’. There they
went up to the first floor, and sat at a small table in the window. It was
late, and the place was thinning out. Tommy took a seat at the table next to
them, sitting directly behind Whittington in case of recognition. On the other
hand, he had a full view of the second man and studied him attentively. He was
fair, with a weak, unpleasant face, and Tommy put him down as being either a
Russian or a Pole. He was probably about fifty years of age, his shoulders
cringed a little as he talked, and his eyes, small and crafty, shifted
unceasingly.
Having already lunched heartily, Tommy contented himself with ordering a
Welsh rarebit and a cup of coffee. Whittington ordered a substantial lunch for
himself and his companion; then, as the waitress withdrew, he moved his chair a
little closer to the table and began to talk earnestly in a low voice. The
other man joined in. Listen as he would, Tommy could only catch a word here and
there; but the gist of it seemed to be some directions or orders which the big
man was impressing on his companion, and with which the latter seemed from time
to time to disagree. Whittington addressed the other as Boris.
Tommy caught the word “Ireland” several times, also “propaganda,” but of
Jane Finn there was no mention. Suddenly, in a lull in the clatter of the room,
he got one phrase entire. Whittington was speaking. “Ah, but you don’t know
Flossie. She’s a marvel. An archbishop would swear she was his own mother.
She gets the voice right every time, and that’s really the principal thing.”
Tommy did not hear Boris’s reply, but in response to it Whittington said
something that sounded like: “Of course–only in an emergency….”
Then he lost the thread again. But presently the phrases became distinct
again whether because the other two had insensibly raised their voices, or
because Tommy’s ears were getting more attuned, he could not tell. But two words
certainly had a most stimulating effect upon the listener. They were uttered by
Boris and they were: “Mr. Brown.”
Whittington seemed to remonstrate with him, but he merely laughed.
“Why not, my friend? It is a name most respectable–most common. Did he
not choose it for that reason? Ah, I should like to meet him–Mr. Brown.”
There was a steely ring in Whittington’s voice as he replied:
“Who knows? You may have met him already.”
“Bah!” retorted the other. “That is children’s talk–a fable for the
police. Do you know what I say to myself sometimes? That he is a fable invented
by the Inner Ring, a bogy to frighten us with. It might be so.”
“And it might not.”
“I wonder … or is it indeed true that he is with us and amongst us,
unknown to all but a chosen few? If so, he keeps his secret well. And the idea
is a good one, yes. We never know. We look at each other–ONE OF US IS MR.
BROWN–which? He commands–but also he serves. Among us–in the midst of us.
And no one knows which he is….”
With an effort the Russian shook off the vagary of his fancy. He looked at
his watch.
“Yes,” said Whittington. “We might as well go.”
He called the waitress and asked for his bill. Tommy did likewise, and a
few moments later was following the two men down the stairs.
Outside, Whittington hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to go to
Waterloo.
Taxis were plentiful here, and before Whittington’s had driven off another
was drawing up to the curb in obedience to Tommy’s peremptory hand.
“Follow that other taxi,” directed the young man. “Don’t lose it.”
The elderly chauffeur showed no interest. He merely grunted and jerked