“We’re keeping observation at Upper Phillimore Place,” Boyd explained, in response to my inquiry. “Funny thing that nobody else calls there, and that the servants have never come back.”
“Have you found the snake that was in the garden?” Cleugh asked of Patterson, with a significant glance at me.
“No,” he responded, rather confused. “You see any search there might arouse suspicion. Therefore we are compelled to be content with watching for the return of any one to the house.”
“But you haven’t yet succeeded in establishing the identity of the pair,” Dick observed.
“No. That’s the queerest part of it,” Boyd exclaimed. “The owner of the house, a builder who has an office in Church Street, close by, says that the place was taken furnished by a Mrs Blain, who gave her address at Harwell, near Didcot. She paid six months’ rent in advance.”
“Harwell!” echoed Cleugh, turning to me. “Isn’t that your home, Urwin?”
“Yes,” I gasped. The name of Blain caused me to stand immovable.
“Why,” Dick exclaimed, noticing my agitation, “what’s the matter, old fellow? Do you know the Blains?”
“Yes,” I managed to reply. “They must be the Blains of Shenley Court. If so, they are friends of my family.”
I had never told my companion of my bygone love affair, because it had been a thing of the past before we had gone into diggings together.