The sergeant saluted again, and Latimer turned to me.
"You and Morrison must come straight to town," he said. "We shall just have time to catch the twelve-three."
It was at this point that Savaroff, who had been regarding us with the half-stupid stare of a man who has newly recovered consciousness, staggered up unsteadily from his chair. His half-numbed brain seemed suddenly to have grasped what was happening.
"Verfluchter Schweinhund!" he shouted, turning on me. "So it was you, then—"
He got no further. However embarrassed the sergeant might be by exceptional events, he was evidently thoroughly at home in his own department.
"'Ere!" he said, stepping forward briskly, "stow that, me man!" And with a sudden energetic thrust in the chest, he sent Savaroff sprawling backwards on the couch almost on top of von Brünig.
"Don't you use none of that language 'ere," he added, standing over them, "or as like as not you'll be sorry for it."
There was a brief pause. "I see, Sergeant," said Latimer gravely, "that I am leaving the case in excellent hands."
He gave a few final instructions to Ellis, who was also staying behind, and then the four of us left the bungalow and walked quietly down the small garden path that led to the road. Just outside the gate stood a powerful five-seated car.
"Start her up, Guthrie," said Latimer; and then turning to us, he added, with a smile: "I want you in front with me, Lyndon. I know Morrison's dying for a yarn with you, but he must wait."