“Well, sir, I needn’t go into all the details, and to make a long story short, I agreed to overhaul the car and to lend him an old Napier while I was at it. He went away, and same day about two or before it he came back with his car, a yellow Armstrong Siddeley. It seemed to be all right then, but he said that that was just the trouble—it might be all right now and it would be all wrong within a minute’s time. So I gave him the Napier—it was a done machine, worth very little, but would go all right, you understand. He asked me how long I would take, and I said I’d have it for him next day, that was yesterday. He had three or four suitcases with him and he transferred these across. Then he got into the Napier and drove away, and that was the last I saw of him.” “And what was wrong with his own car?” “There, sir, you have me beat. Nothing! Or nothing anyhow that I could find.” “Was the Napier a four-seater?” “Five. Three behind and two in front.” “A coach body?” “No, but with a good canvas cover, and he put it up, too, before starting.” “Raining?” “Neither raining nor like rain: nor no wind neither.” “How long was he here altogether?” “Not more than five or six minutes. He left just as soon as he could change the cars.” French, having put a few more questions, got the proprietor to write out a detailed description of the Napier. Next, he begged the use of the garage telephone and repeated the description to the Yard, asking that it should be circulated among the force without delay. Finally he thanked the stout Mr. Hackworth for his help, and with Constable Wilson left the establishment. “Now, Wilson,” he said, “you’ve done a good day’s work. I’m pleased with you. You may get along home, and if I want anything more I’ll let you know in the morning.” But though it was so late, French did not follow his subordinate’s example. Instead he stood on the sidewalk outside the garage, thinking hard. As to the nature of the defect in the engine of the yellow car he had no doubt. What was wrong with it was just what Hackworth had said was wrong with it—nothing whatever. French could see that the whole episode was simply a plan on Blessington’s part to change the car and thus cover up his traces. The yellow Armstrong-Siddeley was known to be his by many persons, and Blessington wanted one which, as he would believe, could not be traced. He would have seen from the papers that Cheyne had escaped the fate prepared for him, and he would certainly suspect that the outraged young man would put his knowledge at the disposal of the police. Therefore the yellow car was a danger and another must be procured in its place. The trick was obvious, and French had heard of something like it before.