Two little beads of perspiration broke out on Medwin's forehead and trickled down into his eyes.
"Stop!" he gasped. "Stop! You young devil, I believe you mean it."
Colin laughed again. "Shove something in his mouth, Joe. We don't want the whole street to hear him squealing."
By a violent effort Medwin managed to wriggle himself up into a sitting position.
"It's all right, Gray," he said quietly. "You needn't go any further. I know when I'm beaten."
He sank back against the cushions, and with a queer half-incredulous expression, stared up into Colin's face.
"I am not often mistaken in my judgment of people," he said, "but I seem to have blundered pretty badly with regard to you."
"Answer my questions," said Colin. "Where's Miss Seymour?"
"She's at Fenton's cottage in Essex, close to South Ockendon. It's a small white house called 'The Firs,' on the right hand of the road, just before you reach the village."
Colin walked to the desk and wrote down his directions on a blank sheet of paper.