Mr. Bradfield appeared suddenly to rouse himself from the sort of stupefaction into which Stelfox’s intelligence had thrown him. Crossing the room with quick steps, he picked out from a pile of canes and weapons of various kinds which stood in one corner a heavy, loaded stick.
“We must lose no time,” said he. “Have you any ideas as to which direction he will have taken?”
“No, sir. All I’m sure of is that he can’t have got far. You see, sir, he can’t meet anyone without their finding out that something’s wrong with him, even if he should chance upon someone that doesn’t know where he belongs to. No, sir; what I’m afraid of is, lest he should happen upon Miss Abercarne. After that day, and seeing what he did, he’d frighten her so dreadfully, sir.”
“He mustn’t meet her—he mustn’t meet her on any account!” said John Bradfield with excitement, and he brought the end of his heavy stick down with force upon the ground.
“I hope you don’t mean to brain the poor chap?” exclaimed Mr. Graham-Shute apprehensively.
“No. But unluckily there’s a possibility of his braining the first person he meets. Do you know, Stelfox, whether he took anything which he could use as a weapon away with him?”
Stelfox hesitated a moment, and then answered:
“Well, sir, one leg of the mahogany table that stands in his sitting-room has been forced off. It looks as if he’d been preparing for this job, for it’s clear he’s been hacking away at the leg on the quiet for some time, so that at last he was able to wrench it off.”
While he spoke, Mr. Bradfield was buttoning himself in his ulster. Stelfox went on:
“I can’t quite make out now how he gave me the slip. The door was closed as usual. He must have picked the lock. He’s as cunning as they make ’em, and nobody would have guessed at breakfast time that there was anything up.”