Throughout the whole journey from Exeter to London he had been revolving the matter in his mind, thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking . . . to the ceaseless throb and hum of the train as it raced over the metals, and now he felt almost as though his brain would burst.
Peter pushed him down into a chair.
"You shall tell me all about it in a minute," he said quietly. Crossing the room to a cupboard in the wall, he took down a decanter and glass and poured out a stiff dose of whisky.
"There—drink that," he said, squirting in the soda-water. "You'll be all right directly," he added.
In a few minutes he had drawn the whole story from Sandy's eager lips, and as he listened his eyes grew curiously hard and determined.
"So we've just one chance—the house in Westminster," he commented.
"We'll go there, Sandy. At once."
They made their way quickly downstairs and out into the street. Hailing a passing taxi, Peter directed the man to drive to Maryon's house, where he enquired for Rooke in a perfectly ordinary manner, as though expecting to find him in, and was told by the maid who opened the door that Mr. Rooke had only just arrived and had gone out again immediately, but that she expected him back at any moment.
"Then I'll wait," said Peter, easily. "Miss Davenant's waiting here, too, isn't she?"
An odd look of surprise crossed the girl's face. She had thought—well, what matter what she had thought since it was evident there was really no secret about the lady's presence in her master's house. These people obviously expected to meet her there. Perhaps there were others coming as well, to an appointed rendezvous for a restaurant supper party or something of the sort.
"Yes, sir," she answered civilly, "Miss Davenant is in the studio."