He unlocked the door and rang for Martha.
“I have to go over to Stunning, Martha,” he said, “I will try and be back for dinner at eight!”
He had no intention of accompanying the party to the Dyke Inn. He must preserve his incognito until Mortimer, the main quarry, had been run down.
He filled his case from the box of cigarettes on the table and thrust a box of matches into his pocket to light his head-lamp. Then, taking a cap from the hat-stand, he opened the front door. Even as he did so a big open car slowed down throbbing outside the porch. A man sprang out and advanced into the light streaming from the front door into the eddying mist. It was Mortimer.
“Fortune,” thought Desmond, “has broken her rule. She has given me a second chance!”
“Well met, Bellward!” cried Mortimer, blinking at the other through his thick glasses. “Tut, tut! What a night! You were never going out, I swear.”
Already Desmond had decided in his mind the course of action he would pursue. For the moment he must let the party at the Dyke Inn slide in favor of the bigger catch. He must slip away later and have another try at the telephone and if it were still out of order, he must endeavor to overpower Mortimer and then go for assistance himself. On a night like this it was useless to think of employing a half-blind old dolt like Martha to take a message. As for the odd man, he lived at Wakefield, and went away at dusk every evening.
So Desmond muttered some plausible lie about wanting to have a look at the weather and cordially invited Mortimer in.
“You will stay for dinner” he said.
“Gladly,” replied the other, sinking with a grunt into the settee. “And I should be glad if we might dine early.”