he was about to hurry off when he remembered that he had not yet opened his father's letter. He did so with a rather qualified enthusiasm since the Vicar's letters were actuated by a spirit of duty rather than pleasure and breathed an atmosphere of Christian forbearance which was highly depressing.
The Vicar gave conscientious news of doings in Marchbolt, describing his own troubles with the organist and commenting on the unchristian spirit of one of his churchwardens. The rebinding of the hymn books was also touched upon. And the Vicar hoped that Bobby was sticking manfully to his job and trying to make good, and remained his ever affectionate father.
There was a postscript: By the way, someone called who asked for your address in London.
I was out at the time and he did not leave his name. Mrs Roberts describes him as a tall, stooping gentleman with pince-nez. He seemed very sorry to miss you and very anxious to see you again.
A tall, stooping man with pince-nez. Bobby ran over in his mind anyone of his acquaintance likely to fit that description but could think of nobody.
Suddenly a quick suspicion darted into his mind. Was this the forerunner of a new attempt upon his life? Were these mysterious enemies, or enemy, trying to track him down?
He sat still and did some serious thinking. They, whoever they were, had only just discovered that he had left the neighbourhood. All unsuspecting, Mrs Roberts had given his new address.
So that already they, whoever they were, might be keeping a watch upon the place. If he went out he would be followed and just as things were at the moment that would never do.
'Badger,' said Bobby.
'Yes, old lad.' 'Come here.' The next five minutes were spent in genuine hard work. At the end often minutes Badger could repeat his instructions by heart.
When he was word perfect, Bobby got into a two-seater Flat dating from 1902 and drove dashingly down the Mews. He parked the Flat in St James's Square and walked straight from there to his club. There he did some telephoning and a couple of hours later certain parcels were delivered to him. Finally, about half-past three, a chauffeur in dark green livery walked to St James's Square and went rapidly up to a large Bentley which had been parked there about half an hour previously.
The parking attendant nodded to him - the gentleman who had left the car had remarked, stammering slightly as he did so, that his chauffeur would be fetching it shortly.
Bobby let in the clutch and drew neatly out. The abandoned Flat still stood demurely awaiting its owner. Bobby, despite the intense discomfort of his upper lip, began to enjoy himself. He headed north, not south, and, before long, the powerful engine was forging ahead on the Great North Road.
It was only an extra precaution that he was taking. He was pretty sure that he was not being followed. Presently he turned off to the left and made his way by circuitous roads to Hampshire.
It was just after tea that the Bentley purred up the drive of Merroway Court, a stiff and correct chauffeur at the wheel.
'Hullo,' said Frankie lightly. There's the car.' She went out to the front door. Sylvia and Roger came with her.
'Is everything all right, Hawkins?' The chauffeur touched his cap.
'Yes, m'lady. She's been thoroughly overhauled.' 'That's all right, then.' The chauffeur produced a note.
'From his lordship, m'lady.' Frankie took it.
'You'll put up at the - what is it - Anglers' Arms in Staverley, Hawkins. I'll telephone in the morning if I want the car.' 'Very good, your ladyship.' Bobby backed, turned and sped down the drive.
'I'm so sorry we haven't room here,' said Sylvia. 'It's a lovely car.' 'You get some pace out of that,' said Roger.
'I do,' admitted Frankie.
She was satisfied that no faintest quiver of recognition had shown on Roger's face. She would have been surprised if it had. She would not have recognized Bobby herself had she met him casually. The small moustache had a perfectly natural
The Vicar gave conscientious news of doings in Marchbolt, describing his own troubles with the organist and commenting on the unchristian spirit of one of his churchwardens. The rebinding of the hymn books was also touched upon. And the Vicar hoped that Bobby was sticking manfully to his job and trying to make good, and remained his ever affectionate father.
There was a postscript: By the way, someone called who asked for your address in London.
I was out at the time and he did not leave his name. Mrs Roberts describes him as a tall, stooping gentleman with pince-nez. He seemed very sorry to miss you and very anxious to see you again.
A tall, stooping man with pince-nez. Bobby ran over in his mind anyone of his acquaintance likely to fit that description but could think of nobody.
Suddenly a quick suspicion darted into his mind. Was this the forerunner of a new attempt upon his life? Were these mysterious enemies, or enemy, trying to track him down?
He sat still and did some serious thinking. They, whoever they were, had only just discovered that he had left the neighbourhood. All unsuspecting, Mrs Roberts had given his new address.
So that already they, whoever they were, might be keeping a watch upon the place. If he went out he would be followed and just as things were at the moment that would never do.
'Badger,' said Bobby.
'Yes, old lad.' 'Come here.' The next five minutes were spent in genuine hard work. At the end often minutes Badger could repeat his instructions by heart.
When he was word perfect, Bobby got into a two-seater Flat dating from 1902 and drove dashingly down the Mews. He parked the Flat in St James's Square and walked straight from there to his club. There he did some telephoning and a couple of hours later certain parcels were delivered to him. Finally, about half-past three, a chauffeur in dark green livery walked to St James's Square and went rapidly up to a large Bentley which had been parked there about half an hour previously.
The parking attendant nodded to him - the gentleman who had left the car had remarked, stammering slightly as he did so, that his chauffeur would be fetching it shortly.
Bobby let in the clutch and drew neatly out. The abandoned Flat still stood demurely awaiting its owner. Bobby, despite the intense discomfort of his upper lip, began to enjoy himself. He headed north, not south, and, before long, the powerful engine was forging ahead on the Great North Road.
It was only an extra precaution that he was taking. He was pretty sure that he was not being followed. Presently he turned off to the left and made his way by circuitous roads to Hampshire.
It was just after tea that the Bentley purred up the drive of Merroway Court, a stiff and correct chauffeur at the wheel.
'Hullo,' said Frankie lightly. There's the car.' She went out to the front door. Sylvia and Roger came with her.
'Is everything all right, Hawkins?' The chauffeur touched his cap.
'Yes, m'lady. She's been thoroughly overhauled.' 'That's all right, then.' The chauffeur produced a note.
'From his lordship, m'lady.' Frankie took it.
'You'll put up at the - what is it - Anglers' Arms in Staverley, Hawkins. I'll telephone in the morning if I want the car.' 'Very good, your ladyship.' Bobby backed, turned and sped down the drive.
'I'm so sorry we haven't room here,' said Sylvia. 'It's a lovely car.' 'You get some pace out of that,' said Roger.
'I do,' admitted Frankie.
She was satisfied that no faintest quiver of recognition had shown on Roger's face. She would have been surprised if it had. She would not have recognized Bobby herself had she met him casually. The small moustache had a perfectly natural
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