Mr. French assented to this sage pronouncement of Moriarty's, and returned to the house in high good spirits. He had just reached the verandah, when the sight of something coming up the path made him catch his breath.
This something was a telegraph boy.
"French?" said the boy, presenting an envelope. Mr. French tore it open.
"Giveen loose—clean got away—motoring down.—Dashwood."
"Any answer, sir?"
"No," said Mr. French, "there's no answer."
He stood for a moment with the paper crushed in his hand. He could hear the boy whistling as he went down the hill. Then he passed into the bungalow.
"Norah," cried Mr. French.
"Yes, sir."
"Fetch me the whisky decanter, and ask Miss Grimshaw to come here."