“Did Mr. Fentolin know that there was an enquiry on foot about this man’s disappearance?” Kinsley asked.
“Certainly. I heard Lord Saxthorpe tell him that the police had received orders to scour the country for him, and that they were coming to St. David’s Hall.”
Kinsley, for a moment, was singularly and eloquently profane.
“That’s why Mr. Fentolin let him go, then. If Saxthorpe had only held his tongue, or if those infernal police hadn’t got chattering with the magistrates, we might have made a coup. As it is, the game’s up. Mr. Dunster left for Yarmouth, you say, yesterday morning?”
“I saw him go myself. He looked very shaky and ill, but he was able to smoke a big cigar and walk down-stairs leaning on the doctor’s arm.”
“I don’t doubt,” Kinsley remarked, “but that you saw what you say you saw. At the same time, you may be surprised to hear that Mr. Dunster has disappeared again.”
“Disappeared again?” Hamel muttered.
“It looks very much,” Kinsley continued, “as though your friend Miles Fentolin has been playing with him like a cat with a mouse. He has been obliged to turn him out of one hiding-place, and he has simply transferred him to another.”
Hamel looked doubtful.
“Mr. Dunster left quite alone in the car,” he said. “He was on his guard too, for Mr. Fentolin and he had had words. I really can’t see how it was possible for him to have got into any more trouble.”