He rang.
"Truman," he cried to the footman, "the limousine ready—immediately! This way, inspector!"
Off he went through the Circular Study, Sheffield following. At the door Mr. Belford paused—and turned back.
He bent over his writing-table, searching for his own careful enlargement of Séverac Bablon's photograph.
Séverac Bablon had not taken it with him, nor had he returned to the room.
But it was gone!
"Rome divided! Treason in the camp!" he said, sotto voce. Then, aloud: "This way, inspector!"
The tower of Womsley Old Place is a conspicuous landmark, to be seen from distant points in the surrounding country, and visible for some miles out to sea.
Mr. Belford raced up the many stairs at a speed which belied the story of his silver-grey hair, and which left Inspector Sheffield hopelessly in the rear. When at last the Scotland Yard man dragged weary feet into the little square chamber at the summit, he saw the Home Secretary with his eyes to the lens of a huge telescope, sweeping the country-side for signs of the daring fugitive.
An unclouded moon bathed the landscape in solemn light. To north, east, and west rolled the billows of the Downs, a verdant ocean. On the south the country was wooded, whilst in the south-east might be seen the gleaming expanse of the English Channel, a molten silver floor, its distant edge seemingly upholding the pure blue sky dome. Roads inland showed as white chalk lines, meadows as squares on a chess-board, houses and farmsteads as chess-men.