The king of spades, good. And here was the three of diamonds. But there was one other card; he was certain of it. A friendly flash of lightning gave him a sudden snapshot of the road; Brinkman was out of sight; another figure, Eames presumably, was already making for the turning. But there was no card in the street; no deceptive fragments of paper, even, to catch the eye. He looked round, baffled. Then his eye caught the sight of an open ground-floor window, that of the “best room.” Could the fluttering runaway have dived indoors again? He put his head in through the window; there it lay, close to the occasional table with the photograph album on it. He was back through the front door in an instant, and making his way upstairs again with his prize.
“Great Scott!” he said, aloud, as he regained his room, “could that possibly be it? That would mean, of course . . . hang it all, what would that mean? Ah! That’s more like it.” The patience lay all round him, forgotten for the moment; his eyes sparkled, his hands gripped the arms of his chair.
When Angela came back from the telephone, she was astonished at the change that had come over her husband. He was standing on the fender with his back to the empty grate, swinging himself to and fro while he carolled a snatch from an out-of-date musical repertoire:
“All the girls began to cry, ‘Hi, hi, hi, Mister Mackay,
Take us with you when you fly back to the Isle of Skye,’ ”
were the actual words that greeted her entrance.
“Miles, dear,” she expostulated, “whatever’s the matter? Have you got it out?”
“What, the patience? No, I don’t think the patience is coming out just yet. But I’ve got a very strong suspicion that our little detective mystery is coming out. As you are up, I wonder if it would be troubling you too much to ask you to step down to Mrs. Davis and ask her if she ever cut any sandwiches for Mr. Brinkman?”
“My poor, poor dear!” said Angela; but she went. She knew the signs of a victory in her husband’s erratic deportment. He was still crooning softly to himself when she came back with her message.
“Mrs. Davis says that she doesn’t remember ever to have cut any ‘sangwiches,’ not for Mr. Brinkman she didn’t. Mr. Pulteney, now, he often takes a nice ‘sangwich’ with him when he goes out fishing. Not that she always makes them herself, because the girl cuts as nice a ‘sangwich’ as you’d wish to see. But Mr. Brinkman he didn’t order any ‘sangwiches,’ not all this week he hasn’t. That’s all the message. At least, I came away at that point.”
“Good! The case progresses. Let me call your attention to this singular absence of ‘sangwich’-cutting on the part of Mrs. Davis. Angela, I’m right on the track of the beastly thing, and you mustn’t disturb me.”