“Gone!” he answered. “Hooked it during the night! Nobody in his room this morning; clean disappeared! Mrs. Tretheroe sent me in to tell the police—she says something’s happened to him.”
“Happened to him? What does she mean?” growled Blick.
Pegge bent still lower. As he spoke they heard the express coming—it entered the station behind them with a roar and a rattle that died away into the hiss of escaping steam as the engine pulled up and came to its brief rest.
“I heard Mrs. Tretheroe say to the housekeeper that the Baron often went out walking very late at night,” he answered. “She said he’s a bad sleeper, and goes out walking to make himself sleep. I made out that she thought he’d gone out that way during the night, and she believes he’s had an accident, or something of that sort. She’s sending folk round for him, and I’m to tell the police here.”
“Wait a minute,” said Blick. The people who had got out of the express were coming from the exits; he moved out of their way. “You’ve no idea what time he went out?” he asked, glancing at Pegge.
“I’ve no idea,” replied Pegge. “I did hear that he went to bed at his usual time, but——” He paused. Grimsdale had come bustling up and was tapping Blick’s elbow. Blick turned quickly. Grimsdale pointed to a tall man who had just emerged from the station and stood at its principal entrance looking about him.
“There!” said Grimsdale. “That man! That’s him—the man who came to the Sceptre on Monday night—the American!”
At that moment the tall man caught sight of Grimsdale, started, smiled, nodded, and came hastily across.
“Hello, landlord!” he said. “The very man I was waiting to see! Say!—how’s this affair about Guy Markenmore going on? I’ve travelled all night to reach this city so that I could tell about things—never heard of it myself till yesterday evening, right down at Falmouth! Have they laid hands on anybody?”
Grimsdale was looking from the stranger to Blick, and Blick hastened to speak.