“You haven’t seen anything of a tall, dark, and very handsome young woman—Italian probably?” I hazarded, wondering if the actual thief had arrived in London.
“No. Captain Wyman is still on the watch. He’s as good as any man I’ve ever had under me—quite professional in his methods. And that young Italian, too, seems a smart sort of chap. You picked him up quite accidentally, I think you said?”
I explained how I had sought Enrico’s aid, and what opinion I had formed of him.
“Well,” Noyes remarked, as he gulped down a glass of Bass with evident gusto, “I shall return tonight, but you’d best remain here, Mr Kennedy; or, if not here, somewhere in the country. You must not be seen in town. Bury yourself away from there, and leave all the watching to us. You’ve got the book, therefore be careful it don’t go out of your possession again.”
“Trust me,” I laughed. “When I’ve gone through it all I shall put it in a bank for safe keeping.”
“It ain’t the sort of thing to leave about if the leaves are really poisoned, as you say. I’ve been afraid to open the thing,” he remarked, half apologetically.
“I’m tired of this place,” I said, longing to return to London.
“Then go somewhere else—to the seaside, for instance. You’re quite near the east coast places here.”
“A good idea,” I exclaimed. “I’ll go to Sheringham tonight. I stayed at the ‘Grand’ once, and will go there again.”
“Very well,” he said, and we concluded our meal and lit cigars afterwards, chatting over the various remarkable features of the mystery. My decision to go to the little watering-place, now becoming so popular, pleased him. My absence from London was imperative, he declared, and at Sheringham, if dull, I could at any rate get some golf. How long I would be compelled to remain there he had no idea.