“Has the advertisement appeared?” asked Michael.
Staines shook his head.
“No, that was the first thing we thought of. The newspapers have carefully observed, and every newspaper manager in the country has promised to notify us the moment such an advertisement is inserted. But there has been no ad. of any suspicious character.”
“I shall have to follow the line of probability here,” said Michael. “It is clear that this man was murdered between eleven o’clock and three in the morning—probably nearer eleven than three; for if the murderer is located in Sussex, he would have to bring the head to Chobham, leave it in the dark and return before it was light.”
His car took Michael back to Chichester at racing pace. Short of the city he turned off the main road, his objective being Griff Towers. It was late when he arrived, and the Towers presented its usual lifeless appearance. He rang the bell, but there was no immediate reply. He rang again, and then the voice of Sir Gregory hailed him from one of the upper windows.
“Who’s there?”
He went out of the porch and looked up. Sir Gregory Penne did not recognize him in the darkness, and called again:
“Who’s there?” and followed this with a phrase which Michael guessed was Malayan.
“It is I, Michael Brixan. I want to see you, Penne.”
“What do you want?”