Then suddenly he smashed his fist into the open palm of his other hand.
“But he wouldn’t have taken it lying down!” he cried. “Hartley Parrish was a fighter, Bruce. Did you ever know a man who could best him? No, no, it won’t fit! Besides ...”
He broke off and thought for an instant.
“We must get that letter from Harkings,” he said presently. “Jeekes will have it. We can do nothing until ...”
His voice died away. Bruce, sunk in one of the big leather armchairs, was astonished to see him slip quickly away from the window and ensconce himself behind one of the chintz curtains.
“Here, Bruce,” Robin called softly across the room. “Just come here. But take care not to show yourself. Look out, keep behind the curtain and here ... peep out through this chink!”
Young Wright peered through a narrow slit between the curtain and the window-frame. In the far corner of the courtyard beneath the windows, where a short round iron post marked a narrow passage leading to the adjoining court, a man was standing. He wore a shabby suit and a blue handkerchief knotted about his neck served him as a substitute for the more conventional collar and tie. His body was more than half concealed by the side of the house along which the passage ran. But his face was clearly distinguishable—a peaky, thin face, the upper part in the shadow of the peak of a discoloured tweed cap.
“He’s been there on and off all the time we’ve been talking,” said Robin. “I wasn’t sure at first. But now I’m certain. He’s watching these windows! Look!”
Briskly the watcher’s head was withdrawn to emerge again, slowly and cautiously, in a little while.
“But who is he? What does he want?” asked Bruce.