Michael took the letters from her handbag. Two of them he read; the third was a dummy which he himself had written. The most direct cross-examination, however, revealed nothing. The woman did the work, receiving a pound for her trouble, in a letter from the unknown, who told her where the letters were to be collected.
“She was a little mad and indescribably beastly,” said Michael in disgust when he reported, “and the Guildford inquiries don’t help us forward. There’s another agent there, who sends the letters back to London, which they never reach. That is the mystery of the proceeding. There simply isn’t such an address at London, and I can only suggest that they are intercepted en route. The Guildford police have that matter in hand.”
Staines was very worried.
“Michael, I oughtn’t to have put you on this job,” he said. “My first thoughts were best. Scotland Yard is kicking, and say that the meddling of outsiders is responsible for the Head-Hunter not being brought to justice. You know something of inter-departmental jealousy, and you don’t need me to tell you that I’m getting more kicks than I’m entitled to.”
Michael looked down at his chief reflectively.
“I can get the Head-Hunter, but more than ever I’m convinced that we cannot convict him until we know a little more about—the caves!”
Staines frowned.
“I don’t quite get you, Mike. Which caves are these?”
“There are some caves in the neighbourhood of Chichester. Foss knew about them and suspected their association with the Head-Hunter. Give me four days, Major, and I’ll have them both. And if I fail”—he paused—“if I fail, the next time you say good morning to me, I shall be looking up to you from the interior of one of the Head-Hunter’s boxes!”