Bobby had no occasion to complain of lack of speed.
Nevertheless, Frankie suddenly said: ‘Look here, Bobby, this isn’t quick enough.’ Bobby glanced at the speedometer needle, which was, at the moment, registering eighty, and remarked dryly: ‘I don’t see what more we can do.’ ‘We can take an air taxi,’ said Frankie. ‘We’re only about seven miles from Medeshot Aerodrome.’ ‘My dear girl!’ said Bobby.
‘If we do that we’ll be home in a couple of hours.’ ‘Good,’ said Bobby. ‘Let’s take an air taxi.’ The whole proceedings were beginning to take on the fantastic character of a dream. Why this wild hurry to get to Marchbolt? Bobby didn’t know. He suspected that Frankie didn’t know either. It was just a feeling.
At Medeshot Frankie asked for Mr Donald King and an untidy-looking young man was produced who appeared languidly surprised at the sight of her.
‘Hullo, Frankie,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for an age.
What do you want?’ ‘I want an air taxi,’ said Frankie. ‘You do that sort of thing, don’t you?’ ‘Oh! yes. Where do you want to go?’ ‘I want to get home quickly,’ said Frankie.
Mr Donald King raised his eyebrows.
‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ said Frankie. ‘But it’s the main idea.’ ‘Oh! well, we can soon fix you up.’ ‘I’ll give you a cheque,’ said Frankie.
Five minutes later they were off.
‘Frankie,’ said Bobby. ‘Why are we doing this?’ ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Frankie. ‘But I feel we must.
Don’t you?’ ‘Curiously enough, I do. But I don’t know why. After all our Mrs Roberts won’t fly away on a broomstick.’ ‘She might. Remember, we don’t know what Bassingtonffrench is up to.’ ‘That’s true,’ said Bobby thoughtfully.
It was growing late when they reached their destination. The plane landed them in the Park and five minutes later Bobby and Frankie were driving into Marchbolt in Lord Marchington’s Chrysler.
They pulled up outside the Vicarage gate, the Vicarage drive not lending itself to the turning of expensive cars.
Then jumping out they ran up the drive.
‘I shall wake up soon,’ thought Bobby. ‘What are we doing and why?’ A slender figure was standing on the doorstep. Frankie and Bobby recognized her at the same minute.
‘Moira!’ cried Frankie.
Moira turned. She was swaying slightly.
‘Oh! I’m so glad to see you. I don’t know what to do.’ ‘But what on earth brings you here?’ ‘The same thing that has brought you, I expect.’ ‘You have found out who Evans is?’ asked Bobby.
Moira nodded.
‘Yes, it’s a long story ‘ ‘Come inside,’ said Bobby.
But Moira shrank back.
‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Let’s go somewhere and talk.
There’s something I must tell you – before we go into the house. Isn’t there a cafe or some place like that in the town?
Somewhere where we could go?’ ‘All right,’ said Bobby, moving unwillingly away from the door. ‘But why ‘ Moira stamped her foot.
‘You’ll see when I tell you. Oh! do come. There’s not a minute to lose.’ They yielded to her urgency. About half-way down the main street was the Orient Cafe – a somewhat grand name not borne out by the interior decoration. The three of them filed in. It was a slack moment – half-past six.
They sat down at a small table in the corner and Bobby ordered three coffees.
‘Now then?’ he said.
‘Wait till she’s brought the coffee,’ said Moira.
The waitress returned and listlessly deposited three cups of tepid coffee in front of them.
‘Now then,’ said Bobby.
‘I hardly know where to begin,’ said Moira. ‘It was in the train going to London. Really, the most amazing coincidence.
I went along the corridor and ‘ She broke off. Her seat faced the door and she leant forward, staring.
‘He must have followed me,’ she said.
‘Who?’ cried Frankie and Bobby together.
‘Bassington-ffrench,’ whispered Moira.
‘You’ve seen him?’ ‘He’s outside. I saw him with a woman with red hair.’ ‘Mrs Cayman,’ cried Frankie.
She and Bobby jumped and ran to the door. A protest came from Moira but neither of them heeded it. They looked up and down the street but Bassington-ffrench was nowhere in sight.