“What kind of car was it?” I asked.
“A hired car, sir,” replied the intelligent boy. “I’ve seen it here before. It comes, I think, from a garage in Wardour Street.”
“You would know the driver?”
“I think so, sir.”
It was therefore instantly arranged that the lad should go with me round to the garage, and there try to find the man who drove the grey car on the previous night.
In this we were quickly successful. On entering the garage there stood, muddy and dirty, a big grey landaulette, which the boy at once identified as the one in which Sylvia had escaped. The driver was soon found, and he explained that it was true he had been engaged on the previous night by a tall, clean-shaven gentleman to pick up at the Coliseum. He did so, and the gentleman entered with a lady.
“Where did you drive them?” I asked quickly.
“Up the Great North Road—to the George Hotel at Stamford, about a hundred miles from London. I’ve only been back about a couple of hours, sir.”
“The George at Stamford!” I echoed, for I knew the hotel, a quiet, old-fashioned, comfortable place much patronized by motorists to and fro on the north road.
“You didn’t stay there?”