"Then I'll pull the old carcass together," said Wimsey, brightly, flinging the bedclothes aside and leaping to his feet, "and toddle off to the City of Light. Will you excuse me for a few moments, sir? The bath awaits me. Bunter, put a few things into a suit-case and be ready to come with me to Paris."
On second thoughts, Wimsey waited till the next day, hoping, as he explained, to hear from the detective. As nothing reached him, however, he started in pursuit, instructing the head office of Sleuths Incorporated to wire any information received to him at the Hôtel Meurice. The next news that arrived from him was a card to Mr. Murbles written on a P.L.M. express, which said simply, "Quarry gone on to Rome. Hard on trail. P.W." The next day came a foreign telegram: "Making for Sicily. Faint but pursuing. P.W."
In reply to this, Mr. Murbles wired: "Exhumation fixed for day after to-morrow. Please make haste."
To which Wimsey replied: "Returning for exhumation. P.W."
He returned alone.
"Where is Robert Fentiman?" demanded Mr. Murbles, agitatedly.
Wimsey, his hair matted damply and his face white from traveling day and night, grinned feebly.
"I rather fancy," he said, in a wan voice, "that Oliver is at his old tricks again."
"Again?" cried Mr. Murbles, aghast. "But the letter from your detective was genuine."