He got up from the table and handed the papers to the custody of the detective, and turned with a quizzical smile to his friend.
“George, do you look forward with any pleasure to a two hundred and fifty miles’ drive?”
“Are you the chauffeur?” asked George.
“I am the chauffeur,” said Leon cheerfully. “I have driven a car for many years and I have not been killed yet. It is unlikely that I shall risk my precious life and yours to-night. Come with me and I promise never to hit her up above sixty except on the real speedways.”
Manfred nodded.
“We will stop at Oxley and try to get a ’phone call through to Gloucester,” said Leon. “This line is, of course, out of order. They would do nothing so stupid as to neglect the elementary precaution of disconnecting Rath Hall.”
At Oxley the big Spanz pulled up before the dark and silent exterior of an inn, and Leon, getting down, brought the half-clad landlord to the door and explained his mission, and also learned that two big cars had passed through half an hour before, going in the direction of London.
“That was the gang. I wonder how they’ll explain to their paymaster their second failure?”
His first call was to the house in Curzon Street, but there was no reply.
“Ring them again,” said Leon. “You left Poiccart there?”