“I know your views,” Hilliard answered, “and agree with them. But if neither of us can suggest an alternative, what else remains?”
This was what Merriman had feared and he determined to play the one poor trump in his hand.
“The number plates,” he suggested. “As I said before, that is the only point at which we have actually come up against this mystery. Why not let us start in on it? If we knew why those plates were changed, the chances are we should know enough to clear up the whole affair.”
Hilliard, who was suffering from the reaction of his night of stress, took a depressed view and did not welcome the suggestion. He seemed to have lost heart in the inquiry, and again urged dropping it and passing on their knowledge to Scotland Yard. But this course Merriman strenuously opposed, pressing his view that the key to the mystery was to be found in the changing of the lorry numbers. Finally they decided to leave the question over until the following day, and to banish the affair from their minds for that evening by a visit to a music hall.
CHAPTER IX.
THE SECOND CARGO
Merriman was awakened in the early hours of the following morning by a push on the shoulder and, opening his eyes, he was amazed to see Hilliard, dressed only in his pajamas, leaning over him. On his friend’s face was an expression of excitement and delight which made him a totally different man from the gloomy pessimist of the previous day.
“Merriman, old man,” he cried, though in repressed tones—it was only a little after five—“I’m frightfully sorry to stir you up, but I just couldn’t help it. I say, you and I are a nice pair of idiots!”
Merriman grunted.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured sleepily.
“Talking about?” Hilliard returned eagerly. “Why, this affair, of course! I see it now, but what I don’t see is how we missed it before. The idea struck me like a flash. Just while you’d wink I saw the whole thing!”