Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He turned to the landlady. "I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of place I want. Now let's see the parlour." The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the old, yellow-back, two shilling edition. "Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?" "Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with." "Any extras?" asked the artful Jones. "No, sir." "Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance." She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for supper, or would he prefer late dinner. "Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular." Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think. Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he would avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act with caution. Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed. One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover was a logical man. There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow. Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever else he might do he could not lurk.