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A dark green Rolls-Royce limousine slid round the corner of Sydney Place and, proceeding a few hundred yards along the Fulham Road, drew up in front of St. Christopher's Hospital. It had scarcely stopped before the door opened and its solitary occupant—a tall, well-dressed man of about fifty—stepped out on to the pavement. "You can wait here, Simmons," he said, addressing the chauffeur. "I shan't be more than a few minutes."