“Touching spectacle of Mr. Fayre, late of the Indian Civil, peddling on his little push-bike within a radius of fifteen miles!” mused Bill Staveley. “Poor old Hatter! I can let you off that, though. You don’t know Foot, do you?”
“That’s the chap who drove me the other day, isn’t it?”
“Probably. He was my batman in France and, after the war, I gave him a driver’s course. He took to it like a duck to water and he’s a first-rate chauffeur and an uncommonly intelligent chap. He’s bought himself a motor-bike and takes it to pieces every Saturday night just for fun and I’ll bet there isn’t a garage round here where he hasn’t talked motor for hours. Give him the description of the car you want and he’ll find it for you if it’s anywhere in this part of the country.”
“The question is, will he talk?”
“Not if I give him a hint. You can leave that part of the job to him quite safely. On the other hand, if we could get onto the case Gregg was called to that night we could keep Foot out of it altogether. Even if he was at the farm that night he must have gone on somewhere afterwards. He’s not such a fool as to drive vaguely round the country for three solid hours before going home. You may be pretty certain he looked up a patient, even if he wasn’t called to one.”
“None of the tenants been ill or injured, I suppose?”
“Not that I know of, but we might go through the local rag. I’ve got it in my room and it’s one of those conscientious papers that puts in catchy little comments on old Mrs. Snook’s chilblains and that sort of thing. It doesn’t miss much and if any one hurt himself that night, we shall find it there.”
They adjourned to the library, where they spent a fruitless half-hour searching the columns of the local paper. They were about to give it up in despair when Fayre, who had reached the last page, gave a cry.
“What about this?” he asked, pointing to the Births column. “March 23rd. The wife of George Hammond of The Willow Farm, Besley, of a son.”
“Would Gregg be their man?”