“There’s a car,” said the officer, “what is it doing there at this time of the morning? There is nobody sick in the house, is there?”
Timothy shook his head. Already he had begun to walk back, and the policeman, sensing something wrong, kept him company. They had covered half the distance which separated them from the car, when it began to move toward them, gathering speed. It flashed past and Timothy saw nothing save the driver, for the hood was raised and its canvas blinds hid whatever passenger it carried.
“It came in from the other end of the avenue,” said the policeman unnecessarily. “Maybe Sir John is going a long journey and is starting early.”
“Miss Maxell would have told me,” said Timothy, troubled. “I nearly took a chance and made a jump for that car.”
It was one of the few chances Timothy did not take, and one that he bitterly regretted afterwards.
“If you had,” said the practical policeman, “I should have been looking for the ambulance for you now.”
Timothy was no longer satisfied to play the rôle of the silent watcher. When he came to the house he went boldly through the gate and up the drive, and his warrant for the intrusion was the officer who followed him. It was then that he saw the open window of the girl’s room, and his heart leapt into his mouth. He quickened his step, but just as he came under the window, she appeared, and Timothy sighed his relief.
“Is that you?” she said in a low worried voice; “is that Mr. Anderson? Thank heaven you’ve come! Wait, I will come down and open the door for you.”
He walked to the entrance, and presently the door was opened and the girl, dressed in a wrapper, appeared. She tried to keep her voice steady, but the strain of the past half-hour had been too much for her, and she was on the verge of tears when Timothy put his arm about her shaking shoulders and forced her down into a chair.
“Sit down,” he said, “and tell us what has happened.”