“Don’t you think we often imagine that we can see resemblances between things when none really exists?” argued Bannister. “I mean this,” he continued, “the existence of a general resemblance is very often mistaken for something much more particular—don’t you think so?” “It’s possible,” conceded Anthony. “There’s Ross back,” declared Bannister listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. “All right?” he queried. “Everything O.K., sir,” answered the Sergeant. “Any news come through for me from Seabourne?” “None, sir.” “I asked Sergeant Godfrey to keep me posted if anything important transpired.” “Did you expect anything?” “I gave Godfrey instructions to try to trace the purchase of the hydrocyanic acid—not that I think he’ll succeed,” he added sternly. “I’ll wager my kingdom that little dose of poison was bought a good many miles from Seabourne—even though there’s a signature in the ‘Poisons’ Book.’” Ross nodded wisely. “Something to kill a dog, if you please, chemist?” he quoted sarcastically. Bannister grinned in satirical appreciation. “Every time!” he exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Bathurst, what’s our programme now?” Anthony pulled-to the door of the garage and locked them again. Then he handed the keys and the postcard to Bannister. “It’s getting on,” he said glancing at his watch, “I think I’ll stay the night in Westhampton. Can you recommend me to a hotel, Sergeant Ross?” “‘The Grand’ should suit you, sir, just up the High Street on the right.” “I think I’ll accompany you, Mr. Bathurst, if you’ve no objection?” put in the Inspector, “I’ve seen all I want here, Sergeant; fasten the place up, and we’ll get away.” “The Grand” was of the solidly-comfortable type. The dining-room to which Bannister and Anthony repaired gave promise of substantial refreshment. It was some time since either of them had tackled anything in the shape of food and the meal that the waiters placed before them proved singularly acceptable. Anthony ordered a bottle of “Pol Roger” and Bannister expanded under its inspiring influence. Four or five other tables were occupied—in most instances by a pair of people. Suddenly two young men, in morning dress, entered the room and made their way to the left-hand corner of the dining-room, to the table nearest to the fireplace and directly behind where Anthony was seated. They seated themselves and gave their order to the waiter. Shortly afterwards Anthony caught the sound of a familiar name. “Alan Warburton?” he heard. “Haven’t seen him at all this journey—and I’ve called at one or two of his favourite haunts too.” Anthony half-turned in the direction of the speaker. He was just in time to see the man addressed lean across the table and speak in low tones. The first man paled, lifted his hand and then stopped suddenly short—his glass half-raised to his lips. “Good God!” he gasped “Never!! Daphne Carruthers?!! That’s a Westhampton name.” Chapter XII Mr. Bathurst Listens to a Little Local Gossip