Inspector Wessex looked at me significantly, but I could only shrug my shoulders in reply; for in these moods Harley was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.
However, he had his way, and Sir Howard hurriedly putting a car in commission, we raced for the local station and just succeeded in picking up the express at Claybury.
Wessex was rather silent throughout the journey, often glancing in my friend's direction, but Harley made no further reference to the case beyond outlining the interview with Bramber, until, as we were parting at the London terminus, Wessex to report to Scotland Yard and I to go to Harley's rooms:
“How long do you think it will take you to find that photographer, Wessex?” he asked. “Piccadilly is a sufficient clue.”
“Well,” replied the Inspector, “nothing can be done to-night, of course, but I should think by mid-day tomorrow the matter should be settled.”
“Right,” said Harley shortly. “May I ask you to report the result to me, Wessex?”
“I will report without fail.”