“I think your reasoning is perfectly sound,” said Gimblet. “You ought to be able to find out something about the horse without much trouble; and incidentally, I hope, about the driver. Let me know as soon as you have news. For my part I will try and see if I can’t get some information about him also. In the meantime, I’ve eaten nothing since breakfast, and exhausted nature calls. I’m off to get some dinner.”
“I suppose,” Jennins called after him, “from what you said to me this afternoon, that you have ascertained that this Madame Querterot is beyond our reach for the moment?”
“Yes,” said Gimblet.
“And do you think the girl, her daughter, has any idea as to the woman’s whereabouts?”
“No,” said Gimblet gently, “I am sure she has not.”
In the flat Gimblet found a telegram awaiting him. It was from Boulogne, and ran as follows:
“Murdered woman not my aunt Mrs. Vanderstein or anyone known to me there is no clue to her identity.
“Sidney.”
Gimblet crumpled it up and flung it into a waste-paper basket.
“A pity to squander five shillings,” he murmured, “in telling me what I already knew.”