’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. They order me to get my man, and I get him. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. ’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You must be got rid of, that is seen. There was absolute quiet. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. Answering him was agonizing. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. I don’t feel it. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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