“It’s a good thing,” said Sir Roland. “Now we know who has got the brooch. Makes it simple. Find Lethbridge—get the brooch—whole affair settled.”
The Viscount turned to Mr Drelincourt. “Where is Lethbridge?”
Mr Drelincourt said sullenly: “I don’t know. He said he should sleep the night in Maidenhead.”
The Viscount was thinking fast. “Maidenhead? That’s a matter of twenty-six or seven miles. Call it a three-hour run. We’ll get him.” He slipped the pistol back into his pocket. “Nothing more to be done here. As for you—” he rounded on Mr Drelincourt, who shrank perceptibly,”—the next time you cross my path will be the last. Come on, Pom; come, Edward.”
When they were once more in the street Captain Heron began to shake with silent laughter.
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” said the Viscount, pausing to frown at him.
Captain Heron grasped the railing. “His face!” he choked. “You breaking in in the middle of his breakfast—oh lord!”
“Ha!” said Sir Roland. “Middle of his breakfast, was he? Dashed amusing!”
Suddenly the humour of the situation dawned upon the Viscount. He went off into a crack of laughter. Mr Drelincourt, peering from between the curtains of his room, was infuriated by the sight of his three visitors doubled up with mirth on the pavement.
Captain Heron let go the railings at last. “Where now?” he asked faintly.