"Mr. Richard? Oh, he's driven over to the races at Newbury."
Martin's heart sank. He put obvious questions.
"No, not back to lunch. But hell be back in the afternoon, because there's people corning. Would you like to speak to his mother? She's in the garden."
"No, thanks. You say he drove over. Can you describe the car?"
"Oh, it's just an ole black car. Makes a lot of noise."
"Do you happen to know the number?"
"Are you kidding?" asked the maid, who had evidently been out with American troops.
"As soon as he conies back, will you ask him to ring Martin Drake at the Dragon's Rest? It's very important. Will you give him that message?"
"You have a nice voice," said the maid. "I sure will!"
Martin went back to his room fuming. To follow Richard Fleet in the crowds at Newbury races would be certainly to miss him, even if there were a photograph for identification. The minutes ticked on. He had lunch in the scrubbed oak dining-room, the food being incredibly good. But always he prowled back to the bedroom, also clean and surprisingly comfortable despite the humps of age in the floor.