As to his next step there could be no question. He walked quickly to Kepple Street and asked if Mr. Jefferson Pyke was at home.
Pyke was out, but was expected shortly. Hugging himself for his luck, French said that if he might, he would like to wait for Mr. Pyke. The landlady remembered his previous visit and made no difficulty about showing him up to her lodger’s sitting room.
Before the door closed behind her French saw that his lucky star was still in the ascendant. There on the chimneypiece stood a note addressed “Mr. Jefferson Pyke” in the same handwriting as that for “Mr. James Hurley.”
French carried an old razor blade in his pocket and in less than a minute the envelope was open. The note read:
“Danger. Meet me tonight at old time and place.”
French swore softly in high delight. He had them now! Here was convincing proof of their guilt.
But it was insufficient to bring into court. He must get something more definite. With skilful fingers he reclosed the envelope and put it back where he had found it. Then he settled down to wait for Pyke.
In less than ten minutes the man appeared. French, smiling his pleasant smile, greeted him apologetically.
“Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Pyke, but I want to ask you for a little further help in this Ashburton affair. I have made a discovery, but first I must ask you to keep what I have to say to yourself.”
Pyke nodded.
“Of course, Mr. French. Sit down, won’t you, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“All I want is a little information,” French declared, taking the proffered chair. “I may tell you between ourselves that certain facts suggest that Colonel Domlio may have been involved. Can you tell me anything that might help me to a decision, anything that your cousin told you or that Mr. Berlyn may have said in your presence?”
Pyke shook his head.
“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Why, no! I never thought of such a thing, and neither Stanley nor Berlyn ever said anything to suggest it.”
French continued to question him long enough to convince him that this was really the business on which he had called. Then he tried to discount the effect which Mrs. Berlyn’s note would have when at last the man had an opportunity to read it.
“I’ve been to see Mrs. Berlyn on this matter,” he explained. “I’m afraid I was rather rude to her, but I just had to frighten her in order to satisfy myself as to whether or not she suspected the colonel. But at least I apologised afterward. I think she forgave me.”
“And did she suspect Domlio?”
“No, I’m sure she did not. And that counts in the colonel’s favour, for she knew him pretty well. Aren’t you thankful you’re not a detective, Mr. Pyke?”
They chatted easily for some moments and then French thinking that some information about the other’s former movements might be useful, turned the conversation to travel.
“You had a pleasant trip to the south of France with your late cousin, I understand?” he remarked. “I wonder if you’d tell me something about it? I’ve just done enough traveling myself to whet my appetite for more, and the idea of the south of France absolutely fascinates me. What part did you go to?”
“The Riviera and Provence,” Pyke answered, with a subtle change of manner. Up to the present he had been polite; now he was interested. “I can tell you, Inspector, that if you’re fond of travelling you should try those districts. You’d enjoy every moment of it.”
“It’s not doubt of that which keeps me away. Money and time are my trouble. Did you get as far as Italy?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you our itinerary if you care to hear it. We went round to Marseilles by long sea. A jolly sail, that. Then—”
“Good weather?” French interposed. He wanted plenty of detail so that he could check the statements up.
“It was dirty when we left Birkenhead and choppy in the Irish Sea. But it quieted down as we got across the Bay, and from St. Vincent to Gata the sea was like a mirror—an absolute flat calm without a ripple showing. Glorious! Then after Gata we ran into fog, which wasn’t so nice. But we got into Marseilles on time.”
“Birkenhead? That’s the Bibby Line, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we went on the Flintshire. Fine boat of 16,000 tons.”
“I’ve heard those boats well spoken of. I envy you, Mr. Pyke. Then from Marseilles?”
“From Marseilles we went straight through to San Remo. We spent three or four days there, then worked back to Grasse; that’s a small town where they make perfume, between Nice and Cannes, but a bit inland. I’m considering going into the flower trade and I wanted to see the gardens. A wonderful sight all that country must be with flowers in the season!”
“I’ve read about it,” French assured him. “It’s one of the places I’ve got on my list. Flowers and pretty girls, eh?”
“That’s right. We had a dandy specimen to show us round the perfume factory.”
“I guess I’ll see that factory,” French declared. “Are there good hotels in a small place like that?”
“We stayed at the Metropole and it was quite all right. Then we worked slowly up through Provence, staying a night in different towns—Marseilles, Nîmes, Arles, Avignon, and so on to Paris. I’ve got all mixed about the places, we saw so many. An interesting country that, Inspector! There are buildings standing there for sixteen hundred years and more. Wonderful! First chance you get you should go down and see for yourself. But don’t do it as we did.”
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t go from place to place, staying in each for a night. Stay at a centre. Avignon is a first rate one. There are day charabanc trips that let you see all these places and you don’t
