“I don't know. It came to my wife, and she showed it to me.”
“Well, I've no time to wait just now. It's a pity you can't come along with us.”
Stanley Fleetwood lay back on the couch and cursed his crippled state as the three hurried from the room. At the Blowhole they found nothing. The great jet was not playing, and the only sound was the beating of the waves on the beach below the cliff. The moon was just clearing the horizon mists, and there was enough light to show that the headland was bare.
“They've got away,” Sir Clinton commented, when they saw they had drawn blank. “They had that car of theirs; I saw the boat-house was empty when we were at the cottage. That means they may be anywhere within twenty miles by this time. We can't do much except send out a general warning. You do that, inspector, when we get back to the hotel. But it's the poorest chance, and we must think of something nearer home if we're to do anything ourselves.”
He pondered over the problem for a minute, and then continued:
“They won't go back to the cottage at present. It wouldn't be safe. If they want to lie up for even a few hours, they'll need a house of some sort for the work. And it'll need to be an empty house in a quiet place, unless I've misread things.”
He reflected again before concluding.
“It's a mere chance, but Foxhills and Peter Hay's are the only two empty places here. But Miss Fordingbridge sometimes goes up to Foxhills, so Peter Hay's is more likely. We'll go there on the chance. Come along.”
At the hotel, they found that Sapcote had assembled all the available constables and dispatched them along the road. He had telephoned a message to this effect before leaving himself. Armadale got his headquarters on the telephone and ordered a watch to be kept for any suspicious car; but, as he was unable to supply even the most general description of the wanted motor, the chance of its discovery seemed of the slightest.
He came out of the telephone-box to find Sir Clinton and Wendover waiting for him in Sir Clinton's car.