He took a large gulp of beer, and Drummond rose to his feet.
“Well, I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Perton. I have your address in case I want it, and since you had such a rotten time, I must make that fiver a tenner.” He thrust two notes into the little man’s hand, rushed him through the door, and bawled for Denny to let him out. Then he came back, and his face was triumphant.
“Worth it, Stockton: worth day after day, night after night searching London for that man. Heavens! the amount of liquor I’ve consumed in the Three Cows.”
“Great Scott!” I cried, “is that what you’ve been doing?”
“That—and nothing else. And then I ran into him this morning by accident outside your rooms in Clarges Street. Still, it’s been worth it: we’ve got a clue at last.”
“You mean?” I said, a little bewildered.
“Land’s End, man: Land’s End,” he cried. “I nearly kicked the desk over when he said it first. Then I sent for you: I wanted him to repeat his story for confirmation. He did—word for word. The fog is lifting a little, old boy: one loose end is accounted for at any rate. I always thought they hanged the poor little swine in order to get a sitting shot at us. As they told him—bait. But, anyway, that is all past, and a trifle. He’s got a tenner in his pocket and two quarts of beer in his stomach—and we can let him pass out of the picture. We, on the contrary, I hope and trust, are just going to pass into it again.”
“You really think,” I said a little doubtfully, “that we’re likely to find out anything at Land’s End?”
“I’m going to have a damned good try, Stockton,” he said quietly. “On his own showing the little man was listening with all his ears at that time, and it seems incredible to me that he would invent a thing like that. We know that the rest of his story was true—the part that he would think us least likely to believe. Very well, then: assuming that black beard did make that remark it must have had some meaning. And what meaning can it have had except the obvious one?—namely, that the gang was going to Land’s End. Why they went to Land’s End, Heaven alone knows. But what this child knows is that we’re going there too. I’ve warned in the boys: Toby, Peter and Ted are coming with us. Algy is stopping behind here to guard the fort.”
“What about MacIver?” I asked.
Drummond grinned.
“Mac hates leaving London,” he remarked. “And if by any chance we do run into gorse bush, I feel MacIver would rather cramp my style. When can you start?”
“Well,” I said doubtfully.
“After lunch?”
“I’ve got a rather important brief.”
“Damn your brief.”
I did, and after lunch we started. We went in the Hispano, and spent the night in Exeter.
“Tourists, old lads,” remarked Drummond. “That’s what we are. Visiting Penzance. Let’s make that our headquarters.”
And so at four o’clock on the 6th September five tourists arrived at Penzance and took rooms at an hotel. But should any doubting reader who dwells in that charming West Country town search the various hotel registers I can tell him in advance that he will find no record of our names. Further, I may say that mine host at Exeter would have been hard put to it to recognise the five men who got out of the Hispano in Penzance. There was no point in handicapping ourselves unnecessarily, and Drummond and I at any rate would be certainly recognised by the gang, even if the others weren’t.
The next day we split up. The plan of action we had decided on was to search the whole of the ground west of a line drawn from St. Ives to Mount’s Bay. We split it into five approximately equal parts with the help of a large-scale ordnance map, and each part worked out at about ten square miles.
“To do it properly should take three or perhaps four days,” said Drummond. “It’s hilly going, and the north coast is full of caves. If anybody discovers anything, report to the hotel at once. Further, in order to be on the safe side we’d better all return here every night.”
We drew lots for our beats, and I got the centre strip terminating to the north in the stretch of coast on each side of Gurnard’s Head. Having a very mild sketching ability I decided that I would pose as an artist. So I purchased the necessary gear, slung a pair of Zeiss field-glasses over my shoulder and started off. I had determined to work my strip from north to south, since I felt sure that if the gang was there at all they would have chosen the desolate country in the north or centre rather than the comparatively populous part near Penzance itself.
The weather was glorious, and since I happen to love walking I foresaw a very pleasant holiday in store. I admit frankly that I did not share the optimism of the others. It struck me that, considering over four months had elapsed, we were building altogether too much on a chance remark.
This is not a guidebook, so I won’t bore my readers with rhapsodies over the scenery. The granite cliffs carved and indented into fantastic shapes by countless centuries of erosion: the wild rugged tors rising from the high moorland—it is all too well known to need any further description from my pen. And the desolation of it! Here and there a deserted mine shaft—tin, I supposed, or copper. No longer a paying proposition: not even worth the labour of dismantling the rusty machinery.
I stopped for a few moments to light my pipe, and a passing shepherd touched his cap.
“Going sketching, sir,” he said in his delightful West Country burr. “There certainly do be some fine views round these parts.”
I walked with him for a while, listening absentmindedly to his
