“_L. S. P. Henderson, M.D. 24.a. Selkirk Road. Carlisle._” He scribbled the address and telephone number on the back of an old envelope, reflecting that, once more, his luck was in. He had not only found his man, but found him at Carlisle, of all convenient places. Things could not have fallen better to his hand. There was nothing to prevent his running over to Carlisle that morning and it struck him that, while he was about it, he might call at one or two of the big garages and try to find out if they had housed a car answering to the description of the one seen near the farm. Given the London number, it was on the cards that the man had made a bolt for the south in his flight from the scene of the murder. Unless he made an all-night job of it he would probably break the journey at Carlisle. At any rate, it would be worth trying. His next step was to telephone. Here again he was fortunate, for Henderson himself answered the call. He was enthusiastic when he discovered Fayre at the other end of the line and pinned him down then and there for lunch at his house. Lord Staveley, as soon as he heard his plans, insisted on his commandeering one of the cars for the day and by twelve o’clock he was in Carlisle. He chose a busy garage near the station as a likely place to start his inquiries. He found the manager in the office and, on the plea that he was acting for a farmer whose cart had been run into on the evening of March the twenty-third, ascertained that no car answering to the very meagre description he was able to give had been garaged there on the night in question. He drew as complete a blank at three other garages he visited and was compelled at last to give up the quest in despair. In one case he did hit on a car with _Y.0.7._ as the beginning of the registered number, but the owner was well known to the garage proprietor and the car had been in his keeping for a week prior to the day of the murder and, to his knowledge, had not been outside the garage during that time. Rather disheartened, he drove on to Henderson’s and found the doctor and his wife awaiting him. They gave him a welcome that more than made up for his unsuccessful morning. Henderson, a huge, burly man with the strength of an ox and the gentlest of bedside manners, had married in the interval and was evidently immensely proud of his tiny, very capable-looking Scotch wife. They entertained Fayre lavishly and, so infectious was their open-hearted friendliness, that, by the time lunch was over, he felt as though the intervening years had vanished like a dream and that he was back again in his old student days. Henderson was able to give him news of several old friends he had lost sight of and they were so deeply engaged in discussing the past that it was not until they were settled with their pipes beside the fire in the doctor’s study that Fayre found an opportunity to bring up the subject of Gregg.