“Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective.
“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.
“That’s me.”
He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett” amidst the unintelligible jumble.
With some excitement he rushed into the office to find the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering the words, this was what he read:
“Regret delay in replying to your communication. Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liverpool, February 4.”
“February 4? Why, that’s yesterday. Good gracious, he’s here all the time. Well, of all the—”
But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste to Sloane Square.
About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence, and ran as follows:
“My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We start for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful complications expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested. We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord.