Sir Cresswell rose from his chair and motioned to Petherton.
“Well,” he said, “I think you and I, Petherton, had better complete our toilets, and then give a look in at the authorities here and find out if anything has been received by wireless or from the coastguard stations about the yacht. In the meantime,” he added, turning to Vickers and Copplestone, “Gilling can tell you what’s been going on in your absence—you’ll learn from it that our impression is that the Squire, as we call him, was on the Pike with you.”
The two elder men went away, and Copplestone turned to Gilling.
“What have you got?” he asked eagerly. “Live news!”
“Might have been livelier and more satisfactory,” answered Gilling, “if it hadn’t been for the factor which none of us can help—luck! We tracked the Squire.”
“You did?” exclaimed Copplestone. “Where?”
“When I said we I should have said Swallow,” continued Gilling. “You remember that afternoon of our return from Bristol, Copplestone? It seems ages away now, though as a matter of time it’s only four days ago!—Well, that afternoon Swallow, who had had two or three more keeping a sharp look out for the Squire, got a telephone message from one of ’em saying that he’d tracked his man to the Fragonard Club. I’d gone home to my chambers, to rest a bit after our adventures at Bristol and Falmouth, so Swallow had to act on his own initiative. He set off for the Fragonard Club, and outside it met his man. This particular man had been keeping a watch for days on that tobacconist’s shop in Wardour Street. That afternoon he suddenly saw the Squire leave it, by a side door. He followed him to the Fragonard Club, watched him enter; then he himself turned into a neighbouring bar and telephoned to Swallow. The Squire was still in the Fragonard when Swallow got there: from that time he kept a watch. The Squire remained in the Club for an hour—”
“Which proves,” interrupted Copplestone, “that he’s a member, and that I ought to have followed up my attempt to get in there.”
“Well, anyway,” continued Gilling, “there he was, and thence he eventually emerged, with a kit-bag. He got into a taxi, and Swallow heard him order its driver to go to King’s Cross. Now Swallow was there alone—and he had just before that met his man scooting round to see if there was a rear exit from the Fragonard, and he hadn’t returned. Swallow, of course, couldn’t wait—every minute was precious. He followed the Squire to King’s Cross, and heard him book for Northborough.”
“Northborough!” exclaimed Copplestone, in surprise. “Not Norcaster? Ah, well, Northborough’s a port, too, isn’t it?”
“Northborough is as near to Scarhaven as Norcaster is, you know,” said Gilling. “To Northborough he booked, anyhow. So did Swallow, who, now that he’d got him, was going to follow him to the North Pole, if need be. The train was just starting—Swallow had no time to communicate with me. Also, the train didn’t stop until it reached Grantham. There he sent me a wire, saying he was on the track of his man. Well, they went on to Northborough, where they arrived late in the evening. There—what is it, Copplestone,” he broke off, seeing signs of a desire to speak on Copplestone’s part.
“You’re talking of the very same afternoon and evening that I came down—four evenings ago,” said Copplestone. “My train was the four o’clock—I got to Norcaster at ten—surely they didn’t come on the same train!”
“I feel sure they did, but anyhow, these trains to the North are usually very long ones, and you were probably in a different part,” replied Gilling. “Anyway, they got to Northborough soon after nine. Swallow followed his man on to the platform, out to some taxicabs, and heard him commission one of the chauffeurs to take him to Scarhaven. When they’d gone Swallow got hold of another taxi, and told its driver to take him to Scarhaven, too. Off they went—in a pitch-black night, I’m told—”
“We know that!” said Vickers with a glance at Copplestone. “We motored from Norcaster—just about the same time.”
“Well,” continued Gilling, “it was at any rate so dark that Swallow’s driver, who appears to have been a very nervous chap, made very poor progress. Also he took one or two wrong turnings. Finally he ran his car into a guide post which stood where two roads forked—and there Swallow was landed, scarcely halfway to Scarhaven. They couldn’t get the car to move, and it was some time before Swallow could persuade the landlord at the nearest inn to hire out a horse and trap to him. Altogether, it was near or just past midnight when he reached Scarhaven, and when he did get there, it was to see the lights of a steamer going out of the bay.”
“The Pike, of course,” muttered Copplestone.
“Of course—and some men on the quay told him,” continued Gilling. “Well, that put Swallow in a fix. He was dead certain, of course, that his man was on that yacht. However, he didn’t want to rouse suspicion, so he didn’t ask any of those quayside men if they’d seen the Squire. Instead, remembering what I’d told him about Mrs. Greyle he asked for her house and was directed to it. He found Mrs. Greyle in a state of great anxiety. Her daughter had gone with you two to the yacht and had never returned; Mrs. Greyle, watching from her windows, had seen the yacht go out to sea. Swallow found her, of course, seriously alarmed as to what had happened. Of course, he told her what he had come down for and they consulted. Next morning—”
“Stop a bit,” interrupted Vickers. “Didn’t Mrs. Greyle get any message from the yacht about her daughter—Andrius said he’d sent one, anyway.”
“A lie!” replied Gilling. “She got no message.
