“Sorry I gave you that vain journey, Hayward. This morning a note from Symington came to the office requesting that the new certificates should be delivered to him at the Kingsway Grand Hotel.”
“Yes; that’s the address his housekeeper gave me, Mr. Risk,” said Colin. “Do you wish me to take the letter there now?” he inquired, producing it.
Risk took it and laid it on the writing-table, saying: “About noon I sent the secretary to the hotel with a similar letter, and he found that Mr. Symington had left for Scotland about two hours previously—presumably in response to a wire which the secretary was able to learn he had received.”
“Gone back to Dunford?”
“We must not assume that. Take a cigarette, Hayward, and, if agreeable to you, tell me in a few words what you know of Mr. Symington.”
“Very little, Mr. Risk, and any information I have is indirect. His father and his two brothers all died within a year, and about eighteen months ago he became the owner of what we call the White Farm—a very decent little place until he got possession. He’s not interested in farming, you know. I’ve heard he has done all sorts of things—some pretty queer—in his time. He has the reputation of being a gambler, and a speculator, but please remember that I’m repeating gossip. I”—Colin hesitated—“I really know nothing against the man.”
Risk, offering a lighted match, said quietly: “Well, what do you know in his favour?”
Colin smiled. “One is more likely to hear of a man’s faults than his virtues. Besides, as I told you, I’ve been more away from Dunford than in it during the last five years or so.”
“You are not familiar with the natives?”
“Not generally speaking. Still, I hope I have a friend or two among them.”