Martin Hillyard laughed. Whilst the police were inquiring here and searching there and watching the ports for him, he was lying almost within reach of his hand, snugly and peacefully at Midhurst.
"But I expect that he will go from Midhurst now," Joan added, remembering his snarl of fear when the door had opened behind her, and the haste with which he had fled.
Hillyard looked at his watch. It was one o'clock in the morning.
"You are in a hurry?" she asked.
"I ought to send a message." He turned to Joan. "You know this house, of course. Is there a telephone in a quiet room, where I shall not be interrupted or be drowned out, voice and ears by the music?"
"Yes, Mrs. Willoughby's sitting-room upstairs. Shall I ask her if you may use it?"
"If you please."
Joan left Martin standing in one of the corridors and rejoined him after a few minutes. "Come," she said, and led the way upstairs to the room. Martin called up the trunk line and gave a number.
"I shall have to wait a few minutes," he said.
"You want me to go," answered Joan, and she moved towards the door reluctantly.