In a few seconds a light appeared through the fanlight, and the door was opened by the bearded man. A big, broad-shouldered man in a dark overcoat and soft hat stood on the steps.
‘Hallo, Felix!’ cried the new-comer heartily. ‘Glad to see you’re at home. When did you get back?’
‘That you, Martin? Come in. I got back on Sunday night.’
‘I’ll not go in, thanks, but I want you to come round and make up a four at bridge. Tom Brice is with us, and he has brought along a friend of his, a young solicitor from Liverpool. You’ll come, won’t you?’
The man addressed as Felix hesitated a moment before replying.
‘Thanks, yes. I’ll go, certainly. But I’m all alone and I haven’t changed. Come in a minute till I do so.’
‘And, if it’s a fair question, where did you get your dinner if you’re all alone?’
‘In town. I’m only just home.’
They went in and the door was closed. Some few minutes later they emerged again and, pulling the door behind them, disappeared down the drive, the distant click of the gate signifying their arrival at the road. As soon as this sounded, the watcher in the lane moved rapidly, though silently, after them, and Constable Walker was left in undisputed possession.
On the coast becoming clear he slipped out on to the lane, walked down it to the road and turned back in the direction of London. As he did so a clock struck nine.