And Nogam
felt reasonably safe in assuming that he would not approach the house near
Queen Anne's Gate without seeing (for the mere trouble of looking) a second
and an entirely gratuitous shadow attach itself to him with the intention
of sticking as tenaciously as that which God had given him. But the next
hour was all his own.
His study of the Chinese phonograms at length resulted in the
transformation of his careworn face by a slowly dawning smile, the gleeful
smile of a mischief-loving child. And when he had worked for a while on the
message, touching up the skillfully drawn characters with a pencil the mate
to that which Victor had used, he sat back and laughed aloud over the
result of his labours, with some appreciation of the glow that warms the
cockles of the artist's heart when his deft pen has raised a cheque from
tens to thousands, and he reviews a good job well done.
The torn envelope which had held the message to Shaik Tsin lay at his feet.
Nogam had not bothered to worry it open so carefully that it might be
resealed without inviting comment; though that need not have been a
difficult matter, thanks to the dampness of the night air.
Of the envelope addressed to Sturm, however, he was more considerate; to
violate its integrity and seal it up again was an undertaking that required
the nicest handling. Nor was it accomplished much before the train drew
into Charing Cross.
Outside the station taxis were few and drivers arrogant; and all the
'buses were packed to the guards with law-abiding Londoners homeward bound
from theatres and halls.
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