“Yes, sir. Motorists patronize the place a good deal.”
“And is that all that is known?” I inquired eagerly.
“All at present,” he said. Therefore I left and, returning to the garage, mounted the car and, with head-lamps alight, drove out into the pitch darkness in the direction of Grantham. We sped along the broad old coach-road for nearly three hours, until at last we pulled up before an ancient wayside inn which had been modernized and adapted to twentieth-century requirements.
The manager, in reply to my eager questions, said it was true that the Doncaster police had been there making inquiries regarding four motorists—three gentlemen and a lady—who had called there that morning and had had breakfast in the coffee-room.
The head-waiter who had attended them was called, and I questioned him. I think the manager believed me to be a detective, for he was most courteous, and ready to give me all information.
“Yes, sir,” replied the tall, slim head-waiter. “They came here in a great hurry, and seemed to have come a long distance, judging from the way the car was plastered with mud. The lady was very cold, for they had an open car, and she wore a gentleman’s overcoat and a shawl tied around her head. The tallest of the gentlemen drove the car. They called him Lewis.”
“Did you hear them address the lady?” I asked eagerly.
“They called her Sonia, sir.”
“And you say she seemed very fatigued?”