The teapot was warm, and when Cheyne looked into the kitchen adjoining, he found that the kettle on the gas ring was also warm, though the ring itself had grown cold. If the four lunchers were Blessington and Co., as seemed indubitable, they must indeed be close by, and Cheyne grew hot with eager excitement as he thought that French and he might be within reasonable sight of their goal.
Meanwhile French and his men had carried out a rapid search of the house, without result except to prove that once more the birds had flown. But as to the direction which their flight had taken there was no clue.
“I don’t expect we’ll see them back,” French said to Cheyne, “but we must take no chances.” He turned to his men. “Jones and Marshall, stay here in the house and arrest anyone who enters. You, Carter, make inquiries in these houses to the right, and you, Hobbs, do the same to the left. Come, Mr. Cheyne, you and I will try the other side of the street.”
They crossed to the house opposite, and French knocked. The door was opened by a young woman who seemed thrilled by French’s statement that he was a police officer making inquiries about the occupiers of No. 12, but who was unable to give him any useful information about them. A man lived there—she believed his name was Sime—but she did not know either himself or anything about him. No, she hadn’t seen any recent arrivals or departures. She had been engaged at the back of the house during the whole morning and had not looked out across the street. Yes, she believed Sime lived alone except for an elderly housekeeper. As far as she knew he was quite respectable, at least she had never heard anything against him.
Politely thanking her, French tried the next house. Here he found a small girl who said she had looked out some half an hour previously and had seen a yellow motor standing before No. 12. But she had not seen it arrive or depart, nor anyone get in or out.
French tried five houses without result, but at the sixth he had a stroke of luck.
In this house it appeared that there was a chronic invalid, a sister of the woman who opened the door. This poor creature was confined permanently to bed, and in the hope of relieving the tedium of the days, she had had the bed drawn close to her window, so as to extract what amusement she could from the life of the street. If there had been any unusual happenings in front of No. 12, she would certainly have witnessed them. Yes, the woman was sure her sister would see the visitors.
“Lucky chance, that,” French said, as they waited to know if they might go up. “If this woman’s eyes and brain are unaffected she’ll have become an accurate observer, and we’ll probably learn all there is to know.”
In a moment the sister appeared beckoning, and going upstairs they found in a small front room a bed drawn up to the window, in which lay a superior looking elderly woman with a pale patient face, lined by suffering, in which shone a pair of large dark intelligent eyes. She was propped up the better to see out, and her face lighted up with interest at her unexpected callers, as she laid down among the books on the coverlet an intricate looking piece of fancy sewing.
Inspector French bowed to her.
“I’d like to say how much I appreciate your kindness in letting us come up, madam,” he said with his pleasant kindly smile, “but when you hear that we are trying to find a young lady who we fear has been kidnaped, I am sure you will be glad to help us. The matter is connected with No. 12 opposite. Can you tell me if any persons arrived or left it this morning?”
“Oh, yes, I can,” the invalid replied in cultivated tones—a lady born, though fallen on evil days, thought Cheyne—“I like to watch the people passing and I did notice arrivals and departures at No. 12. About, let me see—, or perhaps a minute or two later a motor drove up to No. 12, a yellow car, fair size and covered in. Three men got out and went into the house. One was Mr. Sime, who lives there, the others I didn’t know. Mr. Sime opened the door with his latchkey. In a couple of minutes one of the strangers came out again, got into the car, and drove off.”
“That the car you saw outside Earlswood, Mr. Cheyne?” asked French.
“Certain to be,” Cheyne nodded. “It was a yellow covered-in car of medium size, No. XL7305.”
“I didn’t observe the number,” the lady remarked. “The bonnet was facing towards me.”
“What was the driver like, madam?” queried Cheyne.
“One of Mr. Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout, with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a toothbrush mustache.”
“That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?”
“Yes, that exactly describes him.”
“And that’s Dangle. There’s no question about the party, Inspector.”
“None. Then, madam, you saw—?”
“That, as I said, was about . About the man you have called Blessington came back with the car. He got out, left it, and went into the house. In about a quarter of an hour he came out again and started his engine. Then the other two men followed, assisting a young lady who appeared to be very weak
