Pursuing his investigations beyond the grounds of the hotel, he came upon the track of motor-car wheels which he followed to the outskirts of the town where he made another discovery. The road here was undergoing repair and owing to the wetness of the morning the night watchman was still on duty, not having been relieved as usually is the case at the hour when the men started work. This old man Klein questioned. “Yes,” said the watchman, “I saw a motor-car. It was an ambulance with green lights. It went past here a little after one this morning and came back a little after two. It stopped very near the hotel, because I could see its tail lights and I saw it turn round.” Klein went back to the hotel with his nerves shaken and his usually well-ordered mind in a condition of chaos. “I am going back to town by the ten o’clock train,” he told Mister Haynes. “I suppose you will be staying?” “No,” said Mister Haynes with another yawn. “I shall go back, too. There is nothing to be got out of this place.” And so, much to the disgust of Klein, who in his state of mind would have preferred to have been alone, they went back together. They had to change at Basingstoke, and there finding that he would have half an hour to wait, Klein crossed to the nearest hotel and got me on the ’phone. It was in this way that he related to me as far as he could with safety the extraordinary happenings of the previous night. “It is inexplicable, my dear Heine,” he said, speaking in Spanish. “I am bewildered, stunned.” I no less was agitated. “Did he not communicate anything to you?” I asked. “Yes, thank our good Gott!” said Klein’s voice; “he gave me a rough sketch which may be sufficient. Whatever has happened to him the good fellow’s work is not fruitless.” Then suddenly his voice sank and he spoke hurriedly. “I cannot say more,” he said, “that infernal reporter of yours is outside the box. Does he understand Spanish?” “He understands no language except bad French,” I replied, and heard the click of the telephone receiver being hung up. So distressed and puzzled was I that I went down to the station to meet my friend. I walked along the platform as the train came to a slow standstill, and the first person I met was Mister Haynes, looking more untidy than ever. “Where is my friend?” I asked. “I don’t know,” said Haynes, yawning; “he went over to the hotel to telephone to somebody at Basingstoke and left before I did. In fact, I had to run to catch the train,” he explained. “He is here somewhere.” But there was no Klein. If he had been left behind he would have telephoned me. I made inquiries of the guard. “A gentleman in a check cap and a long ulster?” said that official. “Yes, I remember him. He got on to the train at Basingstoke, first-class passenger, wasn’t he? I particularly noticed he was in a carriage by himself and was reading. This is the carriage,” he said, pulling the door open, “here is his magazine.”