“Four days ago,” he said, “a bus conductor recovered from an attack of influenza—and saw our appeal. He came to me and told me that the Wrailes had boarded his bus in Leadenhall Street and got off at King’s Cross. He probably wouldn’t have noticed where they got off if they’d got off in the crowd at the King’s Cross stop—but (as I found on pressing him) they got off one street short of it, by pulling the cord—and he noticed them. They took that turn to the left—they didn’t go to King’s Cross or St. Pancras. “I searched the neighbourhood and found a garage from which they took their _other_ car. They were already slightly disguised—in their walk from the bus to the garage—evidently they always carried small sticks of make-up in case a bolt was necessary. They had bought that car months ago and kept it in that garage—for the bolt and for one other purpose. That evening they drove quietly out of London, stopping somewhere to change their appearance properly—no doubt a make-up box was part of the car’s equipment. They drove through the night—no one was looking out for a Morris saloon with a middle-aged couple in it—down to their cottage in North Wales—near Ruthin. From there, of course, it was a simple matter to run up to Liverpool—yesterday—and post that letter. They’d taken that cottage last spring and been there for very occasional week-ends—as the middle-aged Mr. and Mrs. Waterford—in that Morris car. [‘That’s the car she drove me in,’ thought Ryland.] Nobody had paid any attention to them—nobody does now—except the police. The last link in the story that I’ve been telling you was completed by us this morning; their place will be surrounded as soon as it’s dark—it is already. I’m going down now to take them.” Poole rose to his feet. “My train’s at seven—I must go. Good-night, Miss Fratten—thank you for giving me tea—and for all you’ve done to make a beastly job bearable. Good-night, Mr. Fratten—you won’t mind if I wish you good luck? Good-night, Mr. Mangane.” He turned on his heel and walked quickly to the door. The three others still sat, almost petrified by astonishment at the sudden change of situation. Inez was the first to recover herself; she sprang to her feet and ran after Poole shutting the door firmly behind her. The detective was just opening the front door. “Mr. Poole, wait!” she said. He turned back to meet her. “I just wanted to say—that letter of Captain Wraile’s—they’re desperate people, Mr. Poole—do be—do be as careful as you can.” Poole looked down into the girl’s flushed face and sparkling eyes—eyes in which sympathy and anxiety at least were present. A great longing seized him. “If you . . .” he forced back the words that were surging to his lips. “Thank you, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I shall do my duty.” He turned abruptly, opened the door, and walked out into the night. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE