“You see to that,” said Tom; “I’ll go on to Folkestone.”
“Right, sir,” and in due time the pair—father and son—were in pursuit, with the wheels of the fast train seeming always to grind out a tune such as is played by an organ whose handle is turned by a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian; while when the engine stopped, instead of calling out the name of the station, the men seemed to whine—“Ah, signora—ah, bella signora,” and in his irritation Tom lit a cigar, and yelled forth the word condemnation in its most abbreviated form.
Chapter Twenty Six.
On the Track.
Telegram—
“From Barmouth, Folkestone, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.
“No news as yet.”
This was the first sent during the chase.
“From Barmouth, Beurice’s, Paris, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.
“No news as yet.”