"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household--lot of smart girls looking after an old woman--Barraclough's mother." "What's she like?" "Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot." "Shrewd?" "Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything--bit of a fool--mostly are--that old country sort." Mr. Bolt mused. "Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?" "Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little." "'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley--'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket." "Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor." "And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?" "Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him." Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily. "Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?" Harrison Smith thought for a moment. "That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?" "Sure." "Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50." "Right." "And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys." "Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys. "Going to have a try," came the answer. Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle. "Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick, guttural "S'bad--s'bad pizness. Dese servants wass ver' insubordinate. S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy." They shook hands cordially.