"That's right. Don't talk. I can pretty well guess what took place. But, look here. Who's Handyside—a mere acquaintance?"
Another nod.
"You just contrived to pick him up, and used him as an excuse for coming to Eastbourne? I see. That removes a troublesome pawn off the chessboard."
"But it doesn't," wheezed Theydon. "He ought to be here. Can't make out—what has become of him."
"He will turn up—an American, isn't he? I thought so. The indications were slight but certain—features, walk, figure. You can buy clothes, but the genuine citizen of God's own country is as distinct a type as a Highlander—all wool and a yard wide."
Inside the hotel they came on Evelyn Forbes talking to the manager. She hailed them at once.
"Mother has gone to Beachy Head," she cried. "She and her friends are expected home about six o'clock. Shall we have some tea? There is no use in following her. She will be starting back before we could get there."
"Mrs. Forbes is quite well, I hope?" put in Winter, casually.
"Yes, sir, in the best of health," said the manager, indicating, with a flourish of both hands, that nothing else was to be expected as to the condition of any among the numerous patrons of the Royal Devonshire Hotel.
Evelyn asked that tea should be served in her mother's sitting room. When they were screened by the closed door Winter examined Theydon's throat. Beyond a slight swelling and external soreness, the cricoid cartilage—known to the multitude as Adam's apple—was seemingly uninjured, while Theydon himself now made light of the blow, though a certain hoarseness was perceptible in his voice, and he deemed it advisable to speak in a low-pitched tone.