“What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony.
“About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?”
“On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely.
He felt the glances of the three men fixed intently on him.
“Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time,” declared Llewellyn, “though how exactly you’ve been to work, I can’t guess.”
“I sha’n’t ask you to,” laughed Anthony. “It might be trying you too highly, and I mustn’t do that.”
Peter Daventry began to wish that he hadn’t slept so soundly—Mr. Bathurst’s methods were beginning to fascinate him. Breakfast over, he came across and joined Anthony. The latter went up and spoke quietly to Charles Stewart.
“By all means,” was Stewart’s reply, “I’ll let you know directly I want you.”
“Come and have a breath of air, Daventry,” said Anthony. “It’s a perfectly wonderful morning.”
They strolled out into the garden; Anthony took a cigarette and handed his case to his companion. “I want a few minutes’ conversation with this boot-boy, Patrick O’Connor—I have a fancy that it may prove to be somewhat enlightening—and don’t forget, Daventry, anything we may hear, either now or later on, we’ll keep to ourselves, unless we decide otherwise.”