CHAPTER 3APILE of battered luggage stood by the lift. The top piece was a green fabric Army kit with large black initials stencilled on it: “D. J. McG.”; and below them in smaller letters was “Baltimore, Maryland, U. S. A.” Mr. Pinkerton stopped and blinked, his heart beating a little faster. D. J. McG. Big as the United States were, it was still unlikely that two people with Dan McGrath’s initials could show up from them on the same day. In London, perhaps, but not both of them in Godolphin Square.
Mason, the night porter, was coming along from the lighted window of the small office off which, on the right, was Miss Myrtle Grimstead’s apartment. He opened the lift door and put the florist’s box he was carrying on the leather seat.
“More ruddy flowers for ’er. Bring on another one of ’er
