"His cap was picked up on the highway five miles southeast of Saïs."
"How could you know that?"
"I have just learned it by telephone, through a certain source of information."
"Did you learn anything more?"
"There was a little blood on the road."
Warner remained silent.
"Also," continued Halkett thoughtfully, "a motor cycle had skidded up the bank.... But no signs of a serious accident could be discovered—merely the ragged swathe cut through soft earth and rank vegetation.... If Gray met with an accident, he must have mended his machine, remounted, and continued his course—wherever he was going—unless somebody picked up him and his wheel and took them away.... I can't understand this affair. It bothers me."
"The chances are that your friend Gray had a rather bad spill," suggested Warner, "and no doubt you'll hear from him, or about him, before morning."
"I ought to, certainly." He filled and lighted his pipe; Warner rose and began to pace the garden path rather nervously. Presently he came back to where the Englishman sat brooding over his pipe and nursing Ariadne.
"Halkett," he said abruptly, "you remember that girl Philippa in the Café Biribi?"