A Ford is a marvellous eater up of miles and Harrison Smith did not spare his engine nor linger upon the way. Evening was falling when at last they descended the hill into the little fishing village of Polperro. They ran into the inn yard and tried to bespeak a lodging for the night but in this they were unlucky for there was no accommodation to be had. The best obtainable was a shake down in the stable loft, granted on a promise to refrain from smoking. Having refilled the petrol tank and assured themselves that the Ford was in sound running order against the morrow's needs they entered the inn.
"We'll get a snack now," said Harrison Smith, "and after that take a look round and make a few enquiries."
The schooners of ale provided by mine host to wash down the simple country fare were entirely agreeable to Freddie Dirk's parched palate. It had been a long day and, as he pointed out, refreshment had been all too scarce. Harrison Smith might be, and undoubtedly was, an excellent fellow but he did not understand the urgent need for beer without which no good man was at his best. It was all very well going out and asking questions and poking one's nose into this, that and the other but far greater advantage was to be won by poking one's nose into deep foaming tankards of beer. Closing hour came all too soon and it would be time enough to seek fresh diversion after that unhappy event.
Wishing to remain in the good graces of his companion Harrison Smith shrugged his shoulders and sallied forth alone in the direction of the quay. The tide was out and from the mud and sand came the pungent ozonous smell of rotting sea vegetation. Dazzling white gulls wheeled and hovered in the air or noisily disputed the possession of fragments of fish and the offal of the market. In the pool a dozen trawlers, green striped and numbered, with furled brown sails and slackened rigging rode sweetly at anchor. A knot of seamen leaned against the outer stone wall of the pier smoking pipes and gazing idly across the opal coloured sea. A couple of artists were wrestling valiantly with the thousand subtle difficulties of the scene—trying to transmit to canvas the changing lights upon the water, the pink blush on the white-washed houses and the dull grey shadows on the mud. It was a scene calm and sweet enough to awaken gentleness and set romance astir but in Harrison Smith's mind it inspired no more than a sense of doubt and disappointment. Surely this tiny harbour was an unlikely landing for a man to choose who carried in his pocket the key to millions. No decent sized vessel would ever put into such a port. The place was asleep—dead almost.
A blasting conviction that the marks in the guide book had no connection whatever with the business in hand came over him. Barraclough might have put them there expressly to deceive the girl. He was subtle enough to employ such a device. What if after all the others were right and it was indeed Barraclough they had kidnapped? A pretty fool he would look then.
Shaking himself out of these melancholy forebodings Harrison Smith approached an old seaman with the offer of a "good evening" and a fill of tobacco.
"Pretty quiet hereabouts," he remarked.
The old man nodded.
"Still I dare say you get steamers and such like popping in every day to liven things up."
"Bearn't draught enuff for steamers. They doan't bother us much, steamers doan't."