A short search revealed the fact that the birds had flown, hurriedly, it seemed, as everything had been left exactly as during Cheyne’s visit. On the table in the sitting room stood the glasses from which they had drunk their whisky, the box of cigars lay open beside them and the chairs were still drawn up to the table. But there was no sign of Sime or Dangle, and a hurried look round revealed no clue to their whereabouts. “I feared as much,” French commented, as he sent a constable to call in the men who were surrounding the house, “but we have still two strings to our bow.” He turned to the others, and rapidly gave his orders. “You, Hinckston and Tucker, remain here and arrest any one who enters this house. Simmons, go to Locke Street, off Southampton Row, and find Speedwell, of Horton & Lavender’s Detective Agency. You know him, don’t you? Well, find him and tell him this affair has developed into attempted murder and abduction, and ask him can he give any information to the Yard. Tell him I’m in charge. The rest of you come with me to—what did Speedwell give you as Sime’s address, Mr. Cheyne? . . . All right, I have it here—to 12 Colton Street, Putney. We shall carry out the same plan there, surround the house, and then enter and search it. All got that? Come along, Mr. Cheyne.” They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way, though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined it curiously. “I’ll have a go at this later,” he said, as he put it in his pocket, “but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the genuine article.” Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street beyond it, and there came to a stand. “There’s the end of the passage behind the house,” French pointed when his men had dismounted. “Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth house. You other two men and you, Mr. Cheyne, come with me.” He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbors, a small two-storied single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road, with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.