Dutch Fred sat up with a start. "Yes," he agreed, "just outside Kingston. How did you know?"
"Just a guess," laughed the superintendent. "Well, what about it? Did you speak to him?"
"I didn't have a chance," retorted Freddy. "I was in a little run-about with a pal when he came scooting by hell-for-leather. We only got a glimpse of him, and if he noticed us he made no sign. I thought you'd like to know, that's all. It was an open car, brown colour. I couldn't see the number for dust; it was A something."
"Well, we know all that," said Foyle. "All the same, Freddy, I am glad you dropped in: I won't forget it."
"Right oh, Mr. Foyle. Good evening." And the pick-pocket swaggered out, while Foyle thoughtfully stowed away his papers.
Some one brought in a cup of tea and some biscuits, and his watch showed him that it was a quarter to five. He had promised to call on Lady Eileen about six o'clock, and his mind dwelt on the potentialities of the interview as he lingered over his frugal meal. He had
just poured out his second cup, when the telephone buzzer behind him jarred.
"A call from Liverpool, sir," said the man in the private exchange. "Mr. Blake wants you. Shall I put him through?"
A few minutes elapsed before Foyle heard the voice of the man who had been outwitted by the Princess Petrovska. "Is that Mr. Foyle? This is Blake speaking. We've got on the track of the lady again. She'd been staying at a boarding-house pretending she was a member of a theatrical company. A local man spotted her and came back to fetch me to make certain of her identity. But she must have got wind of it somehow, for she's hired a motor and slipped off. We're after her now. She's only got half an hour's start, and we've wired to have the main roads watched. I expect we'll have her in an hour or two."
The superintendent coughed. "Get along then, Blake. And don't smoke when you're on the job this time. Good-bye."