‘And I was in London this morning!’ said Merton, drawing a long breath.
‘You’re over Tweed, now, old man,’ answered Logan, with patriotic satisfaction.
‘Don’t go yet,’ said Merton. ‘You examined the carpet of the room; no traces there of these odd muffled foot-coverings you found in the snow?’
‘Not a trace of any kind. The salt was spilt, some of it lay on the floor. The plate was not broken.’
‘If they came in, it would be barefoot,’ said Merton.
‘Of course the police left traces of official boots,’ said Logan. ‘Where are they now—the policemen, I mean?’
‘Two are to sleep in the kitchen.’
‘They found out nothing?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Let me look at the hole in the wall.’ Merton climbed on to the bed and entered the hole. It was about six feet long by four wide. Stones had fallen in, at the back, and had closed the passage in a rough way, indeed what extent of the floor of the passage existed was huddled with stones. Merton examined the sides of the passage, which were mere rubble.