"Sit well back," said he, as we rattled away up New Broad Street. "We
shall be passing our gay deceiver presently--in fact, there he is, a
living, walking illustration of the folly of underrating the
intelligence of one's adversary."
At Clifford's Inn Passage we dismissed the cab, and, retiring into the
shadow of the dark, narrow alley, kept an eye on the gate of Inner
Temple Lane. In about twenty minutes we observed our friend approaching
on the south side of Fleet Street. He halted at the gate, plied the
knocker, and after a brief parley with the night-porter vanished through
the wicket. We waited yet five minutes more, and then, having given him
time to get clear of the entrance, we crossed the road.
The porter looked at us with some surprise.
"There's a gentleman just gone down to your chambers, sir," said he. "He
told me you were expecting him."
"Quite right," said Thorndyke, with a dry smile, "I was. Good-night."
We slunk down the lane, past the church, and through the gloomy
cloisters, giving a wide berth to all lamps and lighted entries, until,
emerging into Paper Buildings, we crossed at the darkest part to King's
Bench Walk, where Thorndyke made straight for the chambers of our friend
Anstey, which were two doors above our own.
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