"The Duke is in the fire-carriage, Sahib; and thy servant having no sufficient money or orders from the Sahib, was not able to follow further than the station," Azimoolah replied.
Pressed to be more explicit, this was the story he had to impart. He had been patrolling the park, ever with a watchful eye for the house, when between five and six he had seen the Duke come from one of the ground-floor windows and make at great speed for the coppices. Keeping himself concealed, Azimoolah had quickly perceived that it was the Duke's intention to leave the park by the wicket gate, and, considering it his duty not to lose sight of him, he had climbed the wall and followed. Avoiding the village street, Beaumanoir had struck into a series of lanes which presently brought him back into the main road beyond the farthest habitation. Thenceforward, with Azimoolah shadowing him, he had commenced a tramp which lasted between two and three hours, and finally ended at a railway station in a fair-sized country town.
"You ascertained the name of the town?" asked the General.
Yes, after the train had steamed away Azimoolah had not omitted to inquire the name of the town. It was Tring. He had also inquired at the booking-office where the Duke had taken a ticket for, but the clerk had refused the information with a rude remark about the color of his skin—a remark which, east of Suez, might have brought him a taste of cold steel.
"And then, Sahib," concluded the narrator, "without bite or sup I started to run back again, being sore afraid lest thy heart should be troubled by these things."
The General patted his orderly's lean shoulder. "You have done right, old sheep-dog," he said. "And as the lamb has broken loose from the fold you can go and get food and take a few hours' rest. Come, Alec! Let us get back and see what Bradshaw has to tell us."
Azimoolah having vanished over the boundary wall for his lodging in the village, they returned to the house and repaired to the library. Forsyth found a Northwestern time-table and turned up Tring.
"Beaumanoir must have caught the 7.30 down," he said, running his finger down the page. "It's a slow train, stopping at every station, and doesn't go beyond Bletchley."
The General was growing querulous. "Bletchley!" he snorted. "What the deuce does he want at Bletchley? It's a little one-horse town in North Bucks, isn't it?"
"Hold on, it's more than that," said Forsyth, still with his finger on the column. "It's a junction where fast trains stop, and—yes!—he could change there into the North of England express, which calls there at 8.10."