"Read that," said Sir Evelyn, handing him the letter.
Jimmy, rubbing his eyes occasionally, read it through.
"Now," said Sir Evelyn, "tell me plainly, is there anything in it?"
"If you mean the cave, Uncle Evie, there isn't. Not a blessed thing except stones. They've had three policemen watching the entrance, turn about, since yesterday, but there isn't a thing in it except stones."
"Are you perfectly certain about that?"
"Dead sure thing," said Jimmy. "They can search till they're blue in the face. I'm told that they're going to search to-day. But they won't find anything. If I were you, Uncle Evie—of course, it's not my business to offer advice to you or any other big pot like the johnny who wrote this letter. But, if I were in your shoes or his, I'd tell the Customs people to search and be damned. In fact I rather thought of doing that exact thing myself, meeting them at Hailey Compton when they turn up and then gloating afterwards. I dare say it would be beneath your dignity to gloat, except in private. But if you care to run down with me this morning and watch this blessed search of theirs, I can promise that you'll be in a position to rub it in afterwards."
"I won't do that," said Sir Evelyn. "But——"
"I hardly thought you would. That sort of thing wouldn't suit your style."
"But I'll wire a definite denial of the whole story to London," said Sir Evelyn, "if you give me your assurance that I can do so."
"Pitch it as strong as you like. Pithy and straight from the shoulder. Not too long. It only looks as if you'd something to conceal if you go spreading yourself over five bob's worth of telegram. My idea would be 'Damned lies,' or words to that effect."