The Inn was only some ten minutes' walk distant from the cottage, and they soon reached it. The place was in darkness, but they pressed the electric bell, and heard it ring somewhere inside. After a short interval the door was opened, and the barman's startled face looked out.
"I want to use your telephone," Charles said curtly. "It's urgent, so let me in, will you?"
Spindle seemed reluctant to let him pass, but Charles pushed by him without ceremony. "Where is it?" he asked impatiently.
"What - what's happened, sir?" Spindle said. "I 'ope - no one's taken ill?"
"Never you mind," Charles said. "Where's the telephone?"
"There's a box outside the coffee-room, sir. But I don't know as - I don't know as Mr. Wilkes…'
"Rubbish! Wilkes can't possibly object to having Ills telephone used. Where is he?"
"He's Born to bed, sir. I'll show you where the 'phone is, and call 'im."
He led the way down the passage to a telephone box, and casting another wondering look at them made off in the direction of the back premises.
Charles found the number he wanted, and stepped into the box. Peter remained at his elbow, listening. He supposed the landlord's room must be reached by way of the back stairs since Spindle had gone in that direction, but a moment later Spindle reappeared, and saying that he would rouse Mr. Wilkes at once, went quickly up the stairs that ran up at the front of the house.