Lavendale obeyed her, a little dazed. There was a license, a newspaper of that morning's date, a few garage receipts for petrol, a handkerchief, a penknife and a large cigarette case—not another thing. She pushed him on one side while she felt his body carefully. The man opened his eyes, groaning.
'My leg!' he muttered.
Lavendale stood up.
'I think that's all that's the matter with him,' he pronounced—'fracture of the leg. We'd better take him back to the hospital.'
'Leave him alone,' she ordered. 'Come here with me at once.'
Lavendale obeyed mutely. She sprang up into the dismantled car and began feeling the cushions.
'Look in the pockets,' she directed.
Lavendale turned them inside out. There were maps, a contour book, an automobile handbook, more garage receipts, an odd glove—nothing of interest. Suddenly Suzanne gave a little cry. She bent closer over the driving cushion, pulled at a little hidden tab, opened it. There reposed a letter in a thick white envelope, the letter of their quest. Lavendale flashed his electric torch upon it. It was addressed in plain characters:—
To His Excellency.
He thrust it into his pocket.