“Friday, sir. This car wasn’t out on Thursday. Friday was the night of the big storm. She was out in it all night. I didn’t know where she was until Mr. Brett rang me up on Saturday morning.”
“So he was in Staveley on Saturday morning?”
“No, no, sir. He said he was speaking from Lewes. He must have caught an early train out from Staveley or Ashlingsea before we were open. That is why he didn’t ring up before.”
Crewe, on leaving the garage, drove through the western outskirts of the town, and kept on till he passed the sand dunes, and the cliff road stretched to Ashlingsea like a strip of white ribbon between the green downs and grey sea. About a mile past the sand dunes he saw a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, standing back on the downs about fifty yards from the road.
Crewe stopped his car, and walked up the slope to the little cottage. The gate was open, and he walked through the tiny garden, which was crowded with sweet-scented wallflowers and late roses, and knocked at the door.
His knock brought a woman to the door—an infirm and bent old woman, with scattered grey locks falling over her withered face. She peered up at him with rheumy eyes.
Crewe looked at the old woman in some doubt whether she was not past answering any questions. Before he could put the point to the proof she solved it for him by turning her head and crying in a shrill cracked voice:
“Harry, lad, come here and see to the gentleman.”
A man approached from the back in reply to the call. He was short and stout, and his perspiring face and bare arms showed that he had been hard at work. He looked at Crewe, made a movement of his knuckle towards his forehead, and waited for him to speak.
“I am trying to get in touch with a friend of mine who I believe motored along this road on Friday last,” said Crewe. “It was on Friday night that we had the big storm. He must have driven along here on Friday afternoon; he was driving a big grey car. Did you see him?”