Lomas damned the Press.
“You’re so old-fashioned,” Reggie said sadly. “My child, don’t you see? Mr. Smith went to Ipswich, Mr. Smith read the early evening paper and hustled back to tell Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith felt that duty called her. Assuming that Mrs. Smith is our Sylvia, where would it call her? Back to Stanton, to clear up the mess.”
“I suppose so,” said Lomas drearily. “She can go to the devil for me.”
“My dear chap, you do want your tea,” said Reggie. Then Lomas swore.
It was late that night when a dusty car driven by Mr. Fortune approached the lights of Stanton. Mr. Fortune turned away from the bridge down a leafy byway and drew up with a jerk. Another car was standing by Miss Sheridan’s gate. The man in it turned to stare. Reggie was already at his side. “Mr. Smith, I presume?” he said.
“Who the devil are you?” said a voice that seemed to him familiar.
The night was then rent by a scream, which resolved itself into a cry of “Thieves! Help, help! Police!” It came from the house.
Reggie made for the door and banged upon it. It was opened by an oldish woman in disarray. “We’ve got burglars,” she cried. “Come in, sir, come in.”
“Rather,” said Mr. Fortune. “Where are they?”
“On the stair, sir. I hit him. I know I hit one. It give me such a turn.”