"I got him," he announced, triumphantly, "and I've sent for the caretaker and told her to bring some hot water and bandages. Nothing like hot water for sprains."
Cleek expressed himself in thorough agreement with this theory, and stood nursing his aching wrist until the caretaker herself entered with the articles.
She was a middle aged woman with a pale face and deft hands, and Cleek gladly submitted his wrist to her manipulations, wincing slightly as her fingers touched the strained tendons.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, watching the drops of water splashing on to the polished floor that had brought him to grief.
"Did you hear our prisoner last night, Mrs. Perry?" said Belthouse, genially. "One of the blessed British public got shut in and said she almost knocked the place down trying to get help."
Mrs. Perry looked up placidly.
"The walls are very thick, sir, and we were tired out with packing, I expect. I certainly never heard a sound. There, sir, I think that's right." She looked at Cleek.
"Thank you, that will be all right now," he said, but without giving her another glance.
Mrs. Perry had left the room as silently as she entered it, when all at once Cleek gave a little cry of delight.
"Scotland!" he cried, his face lighting up with relief. "I've got it!"