But Francis Gordon had fallen fast asleep.
He awoke, some fifteen hours later, frightened out of his wits; remembered that the need for fear had passed; crawled off a sofa; fumbled about for the electric switch; clicked on the light.
The noise of his getting-up disturbed his host from the deciphering of a cable which read, “Please advance to person for whom you sent cable No. 3426 any monies he requires. Stop. Order him proceed Modane soonest possible and report to French authorities who will have full instructions. Montgomery.”
“I’m most awfully obliged to you, Mr. Towsey,” said Francis Gordon next morning: a clean-shaven Francis Gordon dressed in a green ready-made Italian suit, bright yellow boots on his feet, bright yellow bag in his hand. “Just as a last favour, would you mind having these posted for me.”
He handed over three letters, one—which began “My dear Beatrice, I have to apologize for leaving you so long without news”—addressed care of the Guaranty Trust Company, New York; the second to “P. Jameson, Esq.,” and the third to “H. T. Prout, 10 Mecklinburgh Square, London W.”
Then, having shaken hands with his host, he lit a cigarette, and strolled creakily downstairs to the waiting taxi. . . .
§ 6
Francis’ letter reached his cousin on the morning Peter and Bromley saw their transfer gazetted in the Morning Post. The answer to it, a packet containing two letters and a postcard addressed “Poste Restante, St. Omer,” was in Peter’s pocket as they stood in the Chalkshires’ Orderly Room, bidding Colonel Andrews good-bye.