"Come down and let's see the roadway," said Penteney.
But there was nothing to see at the foot of the steps. The road, like all roads and paths on the Riversreade Court property, was in a perfect state of repair, and there was scarcely a grain of dust on its spick-and-span, artificially treated and smoothed surface; certainly there were no signs of any struggle.
"That's how it's been, you may depend upon it," observed Penteney to Hetherwick as they looked about. "The men were waiting here with revolvers. They'd force them into the car and get in after them; a third man, an accomplice, would drive off. If only we had some more definite information about the car and its occupants!"
"There's an old chap coming down the road who seems to have his eye on us," remarked Hetherwick, looking round. "He may have something to tell. After all, some of the people hereabouts must have seen the car!"
The old man, evidently a labourer, came nearer, looking inquiringly from one to the other. He had the air of one who can tell something on occasion.
"Be you gentlemen a-enquirin' about a moty-car what was round here this mornin'?" he asked, as he came up. "I hear there was somebody a-askin' questions that way, so I just come down-along, like."
"We are," answered Penteney. "Do you know anything?"
The old man pointed up the sunk road to a part of the park where it was lost amongst trees and coppices.
"Lives up there, I do," he said. "My cottage, it be just behind they trees, t'other side o' the road what this here runs into; my garden, it runs down to the edge o' that road. And when I was a-gardenin' this morning—mebbe 'bout half-past-nine o'clock, that was—I sees a moty-car what come along from your way, and turns into this here sunk road. Mebbe that's what you're a-talkin' 'bout?"
"No doubt," agreed Penteney. "And we're much obliged to you. Now what sort of a car was it? Closed, or open?"