"What have you got?" he asked eagerly. "Live news!"
"Might have been livelier and more satisfactory," answered Gilling, "if it hadn't been for the factor which none of us can help—luck! We tracked the Squire."
"You did?" exclaimed Copplestone. "Where?"
"When I said we I should have said Swallow," continued Gilling. "You remember that afternoon of our return from Bristol, Copplestone? It seems ages away now, though as a matter of time it's only four days ago!—Well, that afternoon Swallow, who had had two or three more keeping a sharp look out for the Squire, got a telephone message from one of 'em saying that he'd tracked his man to the Fragonard Club. I'd gone home to my chambers, to rest a bit after our adventures at Bristol and Falmouth, so Swallow had to act on his own initiative. He set off for the Fragonard Club, and outside it met his man. This particular man had been keeping a watch for days on that tobacconist's shop in Wardour Street. That afternoon he suddenly saw the Squire leave it, by a side door. He followed him to the Fragonard Club, watched him enter; then he himself turned into a neighbouring bar and telephoned to Swallow. The Squire was still in the Fragonard when Swallow got there: from that time he kept a watch. The Squire remained in the Club for an hour—"
"Which proves," interrupted Copplestone, "that he's a member, and that I ought to have followed up my attempt to get in there."
"Well, anyway," continued Gilling, "there he was, and thence he eventually emerged, with a kit-bag. He got into a taxi, and Swallow heard him order its driver to go to King's Cross. Now Swallow was there alone—and he had just before that met his man scooting round to see if there was a rear exit from the Fragonard, and he hadn't returned. Swallow, of course, couldn't wait—every minute was precious. He followed the Squire to King's Cross, and heard him book for Northborough."
"Northborough!" exclaimed Copplestone, in surprise. "Not Norcaster? Ah, well, Northborough's a port, too, isn't it?"
"Northborough is as near to Scarhaven as Norcaster is, you know," said
Gilling. "To Northborough he booked, anyhow. So did Swallow, who, now
that he'd got him, was going to follow him to the North Pole, if need be.
The train was just starting—Swallow had no time to communicate with me.
Also, the train didn't stop until it reached Grantham. There he sent me a
wire, saying he was on the track of his man. Well, they went on to
Northborough, where they arrived late in the evening. There—what is it,
Copplestone," he broke off, seeing signs of a desire to speak on
Copplestone's part.
"You're talking of the very same afternoon and evening that I came down—four evenings ago," said Copplestone. "My train was the four o'clock—I got to Norcaster at ten—surely they didn't come on the same train!"
"I feel sure they did, but anyhow, these trains to the North are usually very long ones, and you were probably in a different part," replied Gilling. "Anyway, they got to Northborough soon after nine. Swallow followed his man on to the platform, out to some taxi-cabs, and heard him commission one of the chauffeurs to take him to Scarhaven. When they'd gone Swallow got hold of another taxi, and told its driver to take him to Scarhaven, too. Off they went—in a pitch-black night, I'm told—"