“You may ask,” said Hannasyde, “but I'm damned if I can tell you. Unless, for some reason or other, he wants to ward me off for a few hours.”
“We'll look clever if the next we hear of him is on the Continent somewhere,” remarked the Sergeant.
“What's gone wrong with your psychology?” asked Hannasyde solicitously.
“There's nothing gone wrong with it,” said the Sergeant. “But if you weren't my superior, Chief—I say, if you weren't—I should be asking you what had happened to make you lose your grip all of a sudden. The way things are, of course, I can't ask you.”
“Don't worry!” said Hannasyde. “I haven't lost it yet. You can put a man on to watch that flat, if it will make you feel happier. Tell him to report to the Yard anything that happens—particularly Randall's return.”
“Well, that's better than doing nothing,” said the Sergeant. “Do you expect to get any good out of it?”
“No, but it's as well to be on the safe side,” answered Hannasyde.
It was not until eight o'clock in the evening that the detective watching the flat got into touch with Sergeant Hemingway at Scotland Yard. He rang up then with the news that Randall had come home five minutes before.
The Sergeant relayed this information, and waited for instructions.
Just on eight o'clock,” said Hannasyde, glancing at his wrist-watch. “He's come home to dinner, I should say. Tell Jepson to keep a sharp look-out, and if Matthews goes out again to tail him.”