certain words might have been erased and altered with the express intention of
setting searchers on a false trail.”
Carter nodded. He took a sheet from his pocket, and read aloud:
“Come at once, Astley Priors, Gatehouse, Kent. Great developments–TOMMY.
“Very simple,” said Sir James, “and very ingenious. Just a few words to
alter, and the thing was done. And the one important clue they overlooked.”
“What was that?”
“The page-boy’s statement that Miss Cowley drove to Charing Cross. They
were so sure of themselves that they took it for granted he had made a mistake.”
“Then young Beresford is now?”
“At Gatehouse, Kent, unless I am much mistaken.”
Mr. Carter looked at him curiously.
“I rather wonder you’re not there too, Peel Edgerton?”
“Ah, I’m busy on a case.”
“I thought you were on your holiday?”
“Oh, I’ve not been briefed. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I’m
preparing a case. Any more facts about that American chap for me?”
“I’m afraid not. Is it important to find out who he was?”
“Oh, I know who he was,” said Sir James easily. “I can’t prove it yet–but
I know.”
The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be
mere waste of breath.
“But what I don’t understand,” said the Prime-Minister suddenly, “is how
that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?”
“Perhaps it never left it,” suggested the lawyer gently.
“But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?”
“Ah!” said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet. “I mustn’t keep
you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to–my case.”
Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from
Tommy lay on his table:
“DEAR HERSHEIMMER,
“Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, good-bye. I’ve
been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it.
“Yours, “TOMMY BERESFORD.”
A peculiar smile lingered for a moment on Julius’s face. He threw the
letter into the waste-paper basket.
“The darned fool!” he murmured.
CHAPTER XXIII
A RACE AGAINST TIME
AFTER ringing up Sir James, Tommy’s next procedure was to make a call at
South Audley Mansions. He found Albert discharging his professional duties, and
introduced himself without more ado as a friend of Tuppence’s. Albert unbent
immediately.
“Things has been very quiet here lately,” he said wistfully. “Hope the
young lady’s keeping well, sir?”
“That’s just the point, Albert. She’s disappeared.” You don’t mean as the
crooks have got her?”
“In the Underworld?”
“No, dash it all, in this world!”
“It’s a h’expression, sir,” explained Albert. “At the pictures the crooks
always have a restoorant in the Underworld. But do you think as they’ve done
her in, sir?”
“I hope not. By the way, have you by any chance an aunt, a cousin, a
grandmother, or any other suitable female relation who might be represented as
being likely to kick the bucket?”
A delighted grin spread slowly over Albert’s countenance.
“I’m on, sir. My poor aunt what lives in the country has been mortal bad
for a long time, and she’s asking for me with her dying breath.”
Tommy nodded approval.
“Can you report this in the proper quarter and meet me at Charing Cross in
an hour’s time?”
“I’ll be there, sir. You can count on me.”
As Tommy had judged, the faithful Albert proved an invaluable ally. The two
took up their quarters at the inn in Gatehouse. To Albert fell the task of
collecting information There was no difficulty about it.
Astley Priors was the property of a Dr. Adams. The doctor no longer
practiced, had retired, the landlord believed, but he took a few private
patients–here the good fellow tapped his forehead knowingly–“balmy ones! You
understand!” The doctor was a popular figure in the village, subscribed freely
to all the local sports–“a very pleasant, affable gentleman.” Been there long?
Oh, a matter of ten years or so–might be longer. Scientific gentleman, he was.
Professors and people often came down from town to see him. Anyway, it was a
gay house, always visitors.
In the face of all this volubility, Tommy felt doubts. Was it possible that