“All that can be done, sir, shall be done,” said the officer, quietly. “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll take my advice you’ll go home and have a good sleep.”
“What!” cried Artingale. “Go and sleep? No, I want to be at work.”
“Exactly, sir; then go and have a rest, and be ready for when I want you. If you stop here you can do no good—only harm, by hindering me.”
“But, damn it all!” cried Artingale, furiously, “you take it so coolly.”
“The only way to win, sir—my lord, I mean. But we are wasting time. By now I should have had the telegraph at work, and the description flying to every station in London.”
“In God’s name, then, go on,” cried Artingale, “take no notice of us, only let us stay.”
The officer nodded, and in an incredibly short space of time it was known all over London and the districts round of the elopement or abduction, and a couple of the keenest officers were at work to track the fugitives down.
It took some time; but a clever net was drawn all over London. The early morning trains were watched, the yards where the night cabs were housed were visited; the various common lodging-houses had calls, and every effort was made to trace Jock Morrison, and had he been a known London bird the probabilities are that the police would have placed their hands upon him; but they had to deal with a man whose life had been one of practised cunning, and he had so made his plans that the police were at fault.
They found the cabman in a very short time, and he testified to having driven the great fellow and the lady with him to Charing Cross.
That was all.