Wallace at Bay by Alexander Wilson Page A

the way the Pole asked his companion several searching questions concerning his family, his upbringing, what employment he had had and why he had lost it. To all Carter replied with apparent frankness, though still maintaining his sullen, resentful attitude. He had been prepared for such a catechism and had, therefore, no need to search for convincing answers. Stealing a glance at his companion, shortly before they reached their destination, Carter was gratified to observe that he wore a thoroughly pleased air, as though satisfied that, in the young man by his side, he had found an unexpected but very welcome associate.
    On arrival at Warwick Avenue, Carter went across to a taxi rank outside the Underground station, and asked if there was a Sheerland Road in that neighbourhood. Two or three drivers, standing by their shelter gossiping, shook their heads; then one asked him if he meant Shirland Road. He turned to Modjeska; repeated the question.
    ‘Perhaps it may be so,’ replied the Pole. ‘It is spell S–ach–e–air–l–a–n–d.’
    ‘Blimey!’ commented the driver, ‘sounds like a foreign lingo to me.’
    ‘He means S–H–I–R–L–A–N–D , I think,’ corrected Carter.
    ‘Then that will be Shirland Road he wants. Go along till yer comes to Formosa Street – second turning on the left – then take the second to the right.’
    True to the character he had assumed, Carter turned away without thanking the man, but Modjeska made ample amends. They walked on together until they turned into Shirland Road.
    ‘This is it,’ announced Carter briefly.
    ‘Ah! You have indeed been the friend in need. Now vill you go to a saloon and have a drink at my expense? Aftervards ve vill go back to the hotel.’
    He held out some money to his companion. The latter scowled angrily.
    ‘I don’t want your money,’ he snarled. ‘If I want a drink I’ll pay for it myself. Anyhow it’s too late – the licensing laws make pubs close at certain hours in this free country. I’ve brought you here, you’ll be able to find your way back. I’m off.’
    He strode away without another glance at Modjeska. The latter stood looking after him until he had turned the corner. There was a smile on his face, a light in his dark eyes. Modjeska decided at thatmoment that he had found a most useful man to take the place of Casaroli. Carter had done his work well.
    The Englishman allowed his features to relax once he was out of the Pole’s sight. He suddenly became his own cheerful self once more, and felt it a relief. Nature had certainly not intended that he should look gloomy or sullen. It had almost given him a physical pain to wear an expression of ill-natured sulkiness.
    As he turned into Warwick Avenue, he glanced back more by habit than because of any thought that he might be followed. A tall, thin man was walking across the road from the direction of Bristol Gardens. There was something familiar about him. Carter suddenly whistled to himself. Was it Hawthorne, the American? It looked very much like him. He felt inclined to retrace his steps to make certain, for the man had disappeared along Shirland Road by then, but the possibility of being seen by Modjeska, and thus spoiling everything by rousing that worthy’s suspicions, restrained him. He walked on to the Underground station pondering deeply. Of course it may not have been Hawthorne at all, but Carter thought it was. At all events the American may have been in that district on business and his appearance at that moment a coincidence. But was it coincidence? Carter felt convinced it was not.
    In the train on the run back to Waterloo he continued to cogitate on the circumstance. He felt it impossible to associate the clean, frank-looking American with anything so vile as anarchy. He impressed one as being so utterly straight, the type of man who could do nothing underhand. Yet it was unwise to trust to one’s impressions too much. Despite his appearance he may have been