‘What’s the matter with that?’
‘Starch; that’s what’s the matter with it.’
‘A little starch is fine when you’re ironed out. No luck your end?’
‘No. If it was a backer he was going North to see, then the backer was merely some amateur who had money; not anyone actively engaged in Arabian exploration.’
‘Oh. Well. I’ll be on my way. When shall I ring you next?’
‘As soon as you come to the end of the list. I’ll wait here for your call.’
Grant decided to have the omelette, and while Mrs Tinker prepared it he walked about his living-room letting his mind soar into speculation and pulling it down instantly to a common-sense level, so that it behaved like telegraph lines outside a railway compartment; continually soaring and continually caught back.
If only they had a starting-point. What if Tad came to the end of the likely hotels and still drew a blank? It was only a matter of days before he would have to go back to work. He stopped speculating on vanity and its possibilities and began to reckon how long it would take Tad to cover the remaining four hotels.
But before his omelette was half finished Tad arrived in person. He was flushed and triumphant.
‘I don’t know how you ever thought of that dull little dump in connection with Bill,’ he said, ‘but you were right. That’s where he stayed all right.’