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Certainly, the man with the greasy cap gave undivided attention to Sir Giles' remarks, sometimes stopping the record during a sentence or two and then starting it again as if anxious to capture the next phrase. At the conclusion of the postscript, he disconnected his apparatus, put the cylinder in a box and the box in a drawer, and switched the light off.

An uncarpeted stair, which he negotiated with the aid of a torch, enabled him to reach the ground floor and to step into a mews where a deserted taxicab was standing. Climbing to the driver's seat, he pulled out into Windmill Street.

One curious enough, and able, to have followed him, would have learned that he drove at speed, ignoring would-be fares, through the black-out mysteries of Soho and straight up deserted Regent Street. Half way along in spite of his tactics, a pair of unusually determined wanderers appeared from nowhere and ran out to head him off. They were Australian gunners.

"Say, chum, what's the hurry? We need you."

"Can't be done, mates. See—me flag's dahn. I'm bespoke by a gent at the B.B.C."