At this moment the second detective, who had been searching the field to its farthermost boundary, came back to say that he had picked up the trail again near the postern gate, which was open. They hurried across the field and found proof of his discovery. There was a trail both inside and outside the gate. Near the postern was a big heap of leaves, which had been left by the gardener to rot, and on this they found the impression of a body, as though whoever was the carrier had put his burden down for a little while to rest. In the field beyond the gate, however, the trail was definitely lost. CHAPTER XXV THE MAN IN THE CAR LIFE is largely made up of little things, but perspective in human affairs is not a gift common to youth. It had required a great effort on the part of Adele Leamington to ask a man to tea, but, once that effort was made, she had looked forward with a curious pleasure to the function. At the moment Michael was speeding to London, she interviewed Jack Knebworth in his holy of holies. “Certainly, my dear: you may take the afternoon off. I am not quite sure what the schedule was.” He reached out his hand for the written time-table, but she supplied the information. “You wanted some studio portraits of me—‘stills,’” she said. “So I did! Well, that can wait. Are you feeling pretty confident about the picture, eh?” “I? No, I’m not confident, Mr. Knebworth; I’m in a state of nerves about it. You see, it doesn’t seem possible that I should make good at the first attempt. One dreams about such things, but in dreams it is easy to jump obstacles and get round dangerous corners and slur over difficulties. Every time you call ‘camera!’ I am in a state of panic, and I am so self-conscious that I am watching every movement I take, and saying to myself ‘You’re raising your hands awkwardly; you’re turning your head with a jerk.’” “But that doesn’t last?” he said sharply, so sharply that she smiled. “No: the moment I hear the camera turning, I feel that I _am_ the character I’m supposed to be.” He patted her on the shoulder. “That is how you _should_ feel,” he said, and went on: “Seen nothing of Mendoza, have you? She isn’t annoying you? Or Foss?” “I’ve not seen Miss Mendoza for days—but I saw Mr. Foss last night.” She did not explain the curious circumstances, and Jack Knebworth was so incurious that he did not ask. So that he learnt nothing of Lawley Foss’s mysterious interview with the man in the closed car at the corner of Arundel Road, an incident she had witnessed on the previous night. Nor of the white and womanly hand that had waved him farewell, nor of the great diamond which had sparkled lustrously on the little finger of the unknown motorist.