In Regent Street he found that his task was by no means easy. There were not many car dealers in Regent Street itself, but he knew that the name of the street might well be an elastic term, and in the smaller streets running off the principal thoroughfare there seemed to be such shops by the dozen. He tried each in turn, valiantly working along from the Oxford Circus end of the street, and drawing a blank at each one. Some of the managers looked at him in amazement, but most of them were quite courteous, announcing that, though they had no one named Moss on their staff, it was possible that one of their competitors a little farther along might know more about him.

It was all very trying. Although they all did their best to be helpful, Cunningham was getting almost desperate, and was thinking that the elusive Mr. Moss had lied to the caretaker of the block of Bloomsbury flats, and was really engaged in some other—perhaps some less respectable—profession, when he struck oil at last.

It was in a shabby little side-street, near the Piccadilly Circus end of Regent Street, that he at last ran his quarry to earth, though even here he did not find him at once.

“Moses Moss?” said the manager. “Yes; he works here.”

“Could I have a word with him?” asked Cunningham.

“You can when he comes in,” answered the manager.

“What, hasn’t he arrived yet?” asked Cunningham.

“Oh, yes,” replied the manager with a superior smile; “he came in at the usual hour this morning, but he’s off on a job. He’s taking a client for a trial run in a car, you see—the sort of thing that clients want, these days,” he added ruefully, “and if they don’t get a damned good run we don’t get any money.”

“I see,” agreed Cunningham. “But when do you think there’s any chance of his coming back? It’s very important that I should get hold of him as soon as possible.”

“Yes?” The manager looked at him with an air of some curiosity. “Money troubles, eh?”

“No.” Cunningham smiled. “Nothing like that. Just a bit of information that I think he can give me. So when do you think that I shall be able to get him?”

“Not for some time,” was the unwelcome reply. “Not for some hours, anyway. When Moss gets a client on the string he usually takes some hours before he gets anywhere with him. And, as likely as not, he’ll have lunch with the fellow and then take him around to Sally’s for a drink afterwards, just to mark the bargain, as you might say.”

“Sally’s? Is that the club in St. Martin’s Lane?” asked Cunningham.