“No, I don’t. There you’ve got me! Still—old Gerald may know. I’ll give him a ring.” He unhooked the receiver. “Give me ‘Wedderburn and Rathbone,’ will you—the Accountants—Devonshire Place—will you please—I’ve forgotten the number. Oh! Thank you!”
He waited for a moment or two. “Yes. Mr. Gerald Daventry, that’s it! Oh—hallo, Gerald—Peter speaking. Could you possibly put me into touch with Anthony Bathurst? Eh? . . . Yes, something after his own heart, where . . . Leyton . . . thanks very much.”
He turned to Linnell. “Gerald says we shall probably find him at Leyton this afternoon, on the members’ pavilion. Middlesex are playing Essex, and he rarely misses any of the Middlesex games. He’ll come down himself—Gerald, I mean—and if Bathurst is there—he’ll introduce us.”
“All right, then, Peter. You get along—and if it can be arranged satisfactorily, we’ll ’phone Stewart when you return.”
“Won’t you come along too? Come and see your adopted shire!”
“No. I’ll stay here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
Peter grinned! “You’re a superlative optimist,” he exclaimed, “I must introduce you to a friend of mine who’s a baseball ‘fan.’ He’d be tickled to death to hear you connect cricket with excitement.”
A step sounded in the corridor outside. Linnell and Peter glanced quickly in the direction of the door. Then Linnell heard a voice that he recognized only too well.
“Come in, Inspector,” he announced. “I was half expecting you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Linnell. I thought no harm would be done if I came along and dropped in on you as I suggested. This gentleman, I presume, is Mr. Daventry?” His keen eyes ran Peter up and down.