The railway ended at Southminster, but on alighting they had little difficulty in finding the small police station, where the local sergeant of police awaited them, having been warned by telephone.
"Well, gentlemen," said the red-faced man, spreading his big hands on his knees as they sat together in a back room, "Mr. Bailey ain't at home just now. He's away a lot. The house is a big one—not too big for the four vanloads of furniture wot came down from London."
"Has he made any friends in the district, do you know?"
"No, not exactly. 'E often goes and 'as a drink at the Bridgewick Arms at Burnham, close by the coastguard station."
Walter exchanged a meaning glance with his assistant.
"Does he receive any visitors?"
"Very few—he's away such a lot. A woman comes down to see him sometimes—his sister, they say she is."
"What kind of a woman?"
"Oh, she's a lady about thirty-five—beautifully dressed always. She generally comes in a dark-green motor-car, which she drives herself. She was a lady driver during the war."
"Do you know her name?"