“Come, Clegg,” exclaimed Goodall impatiently, “what do they say at Blanchard’s Hotel?”
Clegg resumed his narrative with an air of injury. “I ’phoned the Hotel and I’ve been able to trace that it was to a gentleman who was staying there with his wife. When the ’phone call had been answered they asked for the manager—immediately. They informed him that owing to the sudden serious illness of a near relative they were obliged to leave the hotel at once. They paid their bill, collected their luggage and departed.”
“On foot?” cut in Goodall peremptorily.
“I didn’t inquire,” murmured Clegg, “I was too—er—taken aback with what I heard next. This gentleman and his wife had registered at the hotel in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart!”
Goodall whistled in amazement.
“From where?” flashed Anthony.
“From New York,” replied the Sergeant.
CHAPTER XIII.
Colonel Leach-Fletcher Is at Home to Visitors
“Stewart!” echoed Goodall. “Great Scott! Where on earth are we getting to? Did you get a description of these people, Clegg?”
“I did, sir. According to my information the man was between thirty and forty—his wife about the same. They had been at Blanchard’s Hotel about a week—I didn’t wait for any more details—I was anxious to get back to you with the information I had got!”