Anthony pulled-to the door of the garage and locked them again. Then he handed the keys and the postcard to Bannister. “It’s getting on,” he said glancing at his watch, “I think I’ll stay the night in Westhampton. Can you recommend me to a hotel, Sergeant Ross?”
“ ‘The Grand’ should suit you, sir, just up the High Street on the right.”
“I think I’ll accompany you, Mr. Bathurst, if you’ve no objection?” put in the Inspector, “I’ve seen all I want here, Sergeant; fasten the place up, and we’ll get away.”
“The Grand” was of the solidly-comfortable type. The dining-room to which Bannister and Anthony repaired gave promise of substantial refreshment. It was some time since either of them had tackled anything in the shape of food and the meal that the waiters placed before them proved singularly acceptable. Anthony ordered a bottle of “Pol Roger” and Bannister expanded under its inspiring influence. Four or five other tables were occupied—in most instances by a pair of people. Suddenly two young men, in morning dress, entered the room and made their way to the left-hand corner of the dining-room, to the table nearest to the fireplace and directly behind where Anthony was seated. They seated themselves and gave their order to the waiter. Shortly afterwards Anthony caught the sound of a familiar name. “Alan Warburton?” he heard. “Haven’t seen him at all this journey—and I’ve called at one or two of his favourite haunts too.” Anthony half-turned in the direction of the speaker. He was just in time to see the man addressed lean across the table and speak in low tones. The first man paled, lifted his hand and then stopped suddenly short—his glass half-raised to his lips. “Good God!” he gasped “Never!! Daphne Carruthers?!! That’s a Westhampton name.”
CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Bathurst Listens to a Little Local Gossip
Anthony motioned Bannister to lean over the table in his direction. Bannister needed no second bidding. He had noticed that Mr. Bathurst had displayed a more than ordinary interest in the two gentlemen and he guessed that there must be good reason for this interest.
“Friends of young Warburton, behind,” he whispered. “It’s just possible we might pick up some information if we handle them judiciously. What do you think?”
Bannister nodded vigorously. He had only a few months to run before reaching a well-earned retirement and it was far from his intention, if he could help it, to complete his career with an unsuccessful “case.” Everything that touched upon the affair at all—he meant to investigate with the utmost thoroughness—even though it might appear at first blush to be of the most unimportant and trivial nature.
“Good idea,” he muttered. As he spoke the door of the room opened again and a shout, jovial-faced man entered and crossed the room. He came straight to Bannister’s table.
“Good evening, Inspector,” he said with outstretched hand.