For a moment he stared at the girl in utter bewilderment; then he broke into a low chuckle.
“She’s beaten us, Bill!” he exclaimed. “It’s Gregg’s address, I’ll be bound. How did you get it?”
“Ran the car over to his house and asked for it, of course. That’s why I was late for dinner. I punctured on the way home. I told the maid that Lady Kean had written to say that she’d lost his prescription and had asked me to see him about it. They said that he always stays at that address when he’s in London and that he’d told them to forward letters there, so he’s sure to go to it if only to collect them.”
There was a blank silence, broken eventually by Lord Staveley.
“Absurdly simple, my dear Watson, when you know how it’s done. One up to you, Cynthia. He’ll smell a rat, of course, when he gets back, but it probably won’t matter then.”
Fayre caught the night train for London on the following evening. Lord Staveley had offered to send him into Carlisle by car, thus saving the change at Whitbury, but he preferred to go from Staveley Grange.
“Both your chauffeurs must hate the sight of me by now, though why you persist in using that wretched little branch line is beyond me,” he complained.
“Lord knows!” admitted Staveley frankly. “It’s a bit of a way round to Whitbury, it’s true, but that’s nothing in a car. Of course, in the old horse days it was a consideration. That and the fact that they gave my grandfather the branch line as a special concession in days gone by and we’ve felt it our duty to use it ever since is the only reason I can think of why we stick to it still. We’re a hide-bound lot, but I must admit I’ve got a weakness for that rotten little station. It reminds me of coming home for the holidays in my school days for one thing.”
“And then we’re surprised to find Americans laughing at us! We are a queer country, you know.”
“Well, if you can find a better ’ole, go to it!” quoted Staveley cheerfully. “You can have the car to Carlisle if you like to-night, but I’m dashed if I’ll send you to Whitbury now!”