Fayre smiled.
“This is one of her little plots. Didn’t you recognize her hand behind it? She told me to say that she would expect you when she saw you.”
“We meet at the hotel, then.”
Fayre accompanied him down the little path to the gate, where the Staveley car stood waiting. They had almost reached the end of the path when Fayre, who had been walking with his eyes on the ground, deep in thought, bent down suddenly and picked up something from the long grass that bordered the path.
“Found anything?” asked Kean.
“An old stylographic pen,” said Fayre, examining it curiously. “I remember them in my youth. ‘Red Dwarfs,’ I think they used to be called. I wonder how it got there.”
Kean held out his hand for it.
“It’s probably been there some time. We’ll ask Leslie if he recognizes it. We’ll stick to it, anyway. It may prove of interest.”
Fayre was peering about in the grass.
“There’s nothing else,” he said, “except some copper-coloured spangles, three of them, here on the path. I believe the poor creature was wearing a brown-spangled dress, so, as we know she probably came up this path, that does not lead us anywhere. The pen may prove more useful.”