"Very sorry, sir, but fax is fax, ain't 'em?"
Carstairs turned to the civil engineer. "They call him Bull-dog Bounce," he explained, "it's no use arguing with him. By the way, I don't know your name. Mine's Carstairs."
"Whitworth. Jack Whitworth."
"Jack. I'm a Jack, too. So is Bounce here. That's strange."
"No, sir. Beggin' your pardon, sir. A. E. Bounce, sir. Algernon Edward Bounce, A.B. That's how it's writ down in the Service books."
"Yes, of course, so you told me before. I'd forgotten. I'm sorry."
The little civil engineer was inclined to smile till he glanced at Bounce's perfectly serious face, then he stared straight ahead, and they drove in silence for some time.
As they neared the outskirts of Southville and still saw no signs of the girl on the road, Carstairs got angry. "I wonder if that woman lied to me," he muttered.
They drove on till they reached the hotel. "No luck this journey," he said, with a resigned smile. "Come on in and have a drink, Bounce." They held a council of war in the smoking room. Whitworth raised his brows in wonder at the tale which was partially disclosed to him.
"The curse of it is, I've got to go up north again on Wednesday," Carstairs said.