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On the following morning Lane's own private car was waiting for him in Shaftesbury Avenue. He was expecting a message from a trusted emissary, to whom he had given the three photographs of Mrs. Morrice, and dispatched to watch the flat of Alma Buckley in Elvenden Mansions.
About twelve o'clock the telephone bell rang. Lane answered it in about as great a state of excitement as was permissible to a man of his strong self-control. At the first words his face lightened. Once again his instinct had led him right to the presumption that the wretched woman, crushed under the weight of her misfortunes, would fly for shelter to the friend of her youth.