Of course she was going that way, thought Michael. She was going to Griff Towers. He was so satisfied on this matter that he did not even trouble to inquire, and when she dropped him at his hotel, she hardly waited for him to step to the side-walk before the car leapt forward on its way.
“There’s a telegram for you, sir,” said the porter. He went into the manager’s office and returned with a buff envelope, which Michael tore open.
For a time he could not comprehend the fateful message the telegram conveyed. And then slowly he read it to himself.
“A head found on Chobham Common early this morning. Come to Leatherhead Police Station at once.
“Staines.”
An hour later a fast car dropped him before the station. Staines was waiting on the step.
“Found at daybreak this morning,” he said. “The man is so far unknown.”
He led the way to an outhouse. On a table in the centre of the room was a box, and he lifted the lid.
Mike took one glance at the waxen face and turned white.
“Good God!” he breathed.