Fayre saw Miss Allen into a cab and then drove straight to his club. After a hot bath and a leisurely breakfast he felt better able to face the world, but he was not sorry to spend a quiet Sunday morning drowsing in front of the smoking-room fire and it was with a distinct effort that he turned out, shortly before one, to keep his appointment with Grey at the Trocadero. He found the solicitor already seated and busy studying the wine-card. At the sight of Fayre he sprang to his feet and greeted him with a mixture of enthusiasm and deference which the older man found refreshing in these casual days. “How about a pick-me-up, sir?” he asked, with a keen glance at his guest. “Or do you despise cocktails?” “They have their uses,” admitted Fayre, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “especially after a long night in the train, but I’m not such a dug-out as you might think, you know!” Grey laughed. “I didn’t mean that!” he apologized hastily. “Only you look a bit done up.” He ordered a couple of Martinis and then plunged at once into the business which was engrossing both their minds. “My man rang up about an hour ago,” he said. “He got onto Gregg all right. He managed to square the ticket-collector and stood by his side as the passengers passed through. The collector spotted the Whitbury ticket and gave him the tip and he followed the man. He says he answered to our description. I think it was Gregg all right.” “Where did he go?” asked Fayre. His lips twitched involuntarily, for he guessed what was coming. “To a doctor’s house, or rather flat. Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street. He took his luggage in, so that looks as if he meant to stay there, unless it was a blind.” “Good work,” was Fayre’s only comment. Grey looked at him sharply. “What’s the joke?” he asked. “Nothing much, only we had our noses pulled rather thoroughly over that address by Lady Cynthia!” He told Grey what had happened. “I like that girl,” was Grey’s enthusiastic comment. “She’s keen. We’ll get Leslie off, if only for her sake.” “We don’t look much like doing it at present,” said Fayre rather hopelessly. “It seems to me that until we can get Gregg to account for that extra hour he spent getting from Whitbury to Hammond’s farm we’re pretty well stuck. And, if he won’t speak we’re not in a position to make him.” “I can’t for the life of me see any connection between Gregg and the Page car,” said Grey thoughtfully. “There is none. Of that I feel convinced. My opinion is that Page simply turned up the lane and, finding it a cul-de-sac, came back again. He may have seen something, but I don’t believe he took Mrs. Draycott to the farm.” “The tramp seemed to think there was a woman in the car, though, the first time it passed him.” “He was very vague about it and admitted he could hardly see the occupants. I believe we ought to concentrate on Gregg.” Grey deliberated for a moment.