"The point is," continued Furneaux, who delighted in keeping his chief on tenterhooks when some new development in the chase was imminent, "that the position here requires handling by a man of your weight and authority. The motor cyclist came back an hour ago, and is now walking in the garden with the girl."
"The deuce! Why hasn't Sheldon reported?" blurted out Winter.
"Because, in all likelihood, he is watching the other girl. Isn't that what you were doing? Isn't half the battle won when we find the woman?"
"I haven't set eyes on my woman."
"You surprise me. That kind of modest self-effacement isn't your usual style, at all, at all, as they say in Cork."
"Probably you're right about Sheldon. He is a worker, not a talker like some people I know," retorted Winter.
"What very dull acquaintances you must possess! Workers are the small fry who put spouters into Parliament, and pay them £400 a year, and make them Cabinet Ministers."
"Evidently things have happened at Roxton, or you wouldn't be so chirpy. Well, so long! See you later."
Having ascertained that an express train was timed to leave St. Pancras for Roxton at six p. m., he was packing a suitcase when a telegram arrived. It had been handed in at Folkestone at four thirty, and read:
Decided to follow lady instead of motor cyclist. Will explain reasons verbally. Reaching London seven o'clock.