“Thanks awfully.”
“Don’t mention it. By the way, I just told that man to inform Mr. Pendleton that I’m comin’ up there this afternoon early, around dinner-time. I’m bringin’ someone with me.”
“Oh? Any harm in asking who it is?”
“None at all,” chuckled Salt. “Good-bye.”
It was about one o’clock when I came downstairs again, after setting down the record of last night’s expedition. I think everyone was in the Hall, surrounding Salt and a young fellow in a neat grey suit, who was lank and had freckles and brown hair. His appearance and manner—he was smiling most of the time—were engaging. Salt also wore a respectful grin; in fact, everyone looked brighter for this chap’s presence, especially Crofts.
“Come on, Bannerlee,” he said; “let me introduce the beginning of the end. You can guess who this is.”
I had a flash of genius. “Yes, I can, by George. It’s Harry—Mr. Heatheringham.”
“Right!” declared the young man. “But after all, Mr. Bannerlee, you’ve an unfair advantage in this guessing business.”
“You mean—?”
He winked, took my torch out of his pocket, and handed it to me with a low bow, such as I had seen somewhere not long before. “Many thanks for this. I had to borrow it when my own failed last night.”