“Did he tell you what else he had tried?”
“God bless me, sir, you are getting worse and worse.”
“Have you seen him about here this evening, doctor? I mean since you communicated with him?”
“Goodness me, no! It would be impossible for Mr Falcon to be here.”
“How so? Supposing he left Sydenham Station before five o’clock, couldn’t he have secretly crept into the park before the last ascent of the balloon?”
“My good man!” cried the doctor, “you have got some of the most horrible notions in your head that it is possible to conceive.”
“Would you, doctor, be surprised to learn, as I did before I was shot at, that a policeman from Sydenham is now here watching the proceedings?”
“I must really go and have a private talk with the squire, and send for your friend. Ah! some knocks—come in. Oh! it’s Miss Dove, I see. Will you remain here, Miss Edith, while I speak with your father?”
“Certainly, doctor; you will meet him coming down.”
When Doctor Peters met the squire, he said to him confidentially,—