The man removed his cap and scratched his head with maddening deliberation.
"There ain't no sailing boat in Burnham as'll overtake her now," he observed slowly. "That's the only craft as could do it—that there petrol launch what come in this morning."
He pointed down to a rakish-looking little decked-in vessel which was bobbing about on the tide just below where we were standing.
"Who does it belong to?" I demanded sharply.
"Well, I don't know—not in a manner of speaking," drawled the old man. "A stout, youngish gen'l'man 'e be. I did 'ear tell that 'e come from Woodford. If you're wanting to see him, as like as not you'll pick 'im up at the hotel." He turned to point to the building in question, and then gave a sudden exclamation. "Why, there be the gen'leman 'isself, sir, over by the lamp-post there."
I looked up, and my heart gave a sudden jump. In the square-shouldered, pleasant-faced man strolling slowly along the quay I recognised an old acquaintance. It was my friend Cumming the story-writer, the man whom I had met in the Bull Hotel when I was staying at Ashton.
Without stopping to explain to Billy, I strode quickly across the road to meet him. He recognised me at once, and raised his hand in greeting.
"How do you do?" he said, with a smile. "I hope you found Barham Bridge all right?"
I pulled up in front of him and looked him squarely in the eyes.
"Mr. Cumming," I said, "you did me a good turn that day. Will you do me another—a much more important one now?"