"I'm rather concerned about Finlay," said Colonel Walton.
"Good man, Finlay." There was a note of admiration in Sage's voice. "He's quite cut adrift from us. He's nothing if not thorough. I can't get in touch with him."
"Of course he knows?"
"That he's being watched? Yes."
"Who's looking after him?"
"Hoyle." Sage drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to charge it from a chamois-leather tobacco-pouch. "I've had to call Thompson off, I think they linked him up with us."
"That's a pity," said Colonel Walton, gazing at the end of his cigar. "He's a better man than Hoyle."
"It's that little chap they've got," continued Sage, "lives at Wimbledon, retired commercial-traveller, clever devil." Malcolm Sage never grudged praise to an opponent.
"How about John Dene?"
"He's not taking any risks," said Sage, as he applied a match to his pipe. "But they'll never let him go north."