He spoke more truly than he realized. They had only just passed the lane leading to Leslie’s farm when a small two-seater turned out of a by-road on their right and sped past them on the way to Whitbury.
It was being driven by Gregg and by his side was the man who had cleaned the paint off Fayre’s coat in the doctor’s garage. At the sight of Cynthia Gregg raised his hand towards his hat, but his eyes were on Fayre and it seemed to the latter that his glance held both contempt and defiance.
He turned and looked after the car and, at the sight of the luggage-rack at the back, an exclamation broke from him. It was loaded with a portmanteau and a big suitcase.
“Good Lord, I might have guessed it! What an ass I was!” he muttered in consternation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Cynthia, surprised at his tone.
“He’s bolting! Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this!”
“Dr. Gregg? Then you really do suspect him?”
“I not only suspect him, but he knows it. Cynthia, I’ve made an unholy mess of this. The only thing to do now is to make for Staveley as quickly as possible. I must get into touch with Grey and warn him.”
Cynthia wasted no time in asking questions. She did her best and Fayre made a mental note never again, when she was at the wheel, even to suggest to her that he was in a hurry. To do him justice he underwent three hairbreadth escapes without making a sound, but he thanked his stars that he was still alive as he tore up the steps and into the little room that housed the telephone at Staveley.
He got Grey with surprisingly little delay and told him what had happened.