"Oh! but we’ve had a report that you’ve got a bad leak in one of your pipes. So I’ll just have to look at it," and he carried in what looked like a walking-stick in wood with a wide trumpet end. The cook took him into the scullery, and he placed the end of his stick upon the pipe. He listened intently, using it like a huge stethoscope. Then he went from pipe to pipe, chatting merrily with the cook and the man-servant all the time. "Are your people at home?" he asked the cook. "No. They went away an hour ago in a car down to Brighton for three weeks. So we’re all off for a bit of a holiday, so hurry up! Do you find anything wrong, mister?" "No," replied the shrewd little man. "There must be some mistake, I suppose. There’s no leak here, as far as I can detect. But what a time you will have—eh? Did they take much luggage?" "No, not very much. Madam said she would come up and get some more on Tuesday." "Went sudden-like—eh?" "Yes. All of a hurry. Their friend, Mrs. Pollen, slept here last night—which is a bit unusual. But my mistress had a ’phone message. Then they rang up for a car and all three went off. They left their address—the Metropole." "Do you know where they got the car from?" "No. That I don’t! Why? I heard Mrs. Pollen ordering it on the ’phone. But where it came from, I don’t know." "You think that they’re at the Metropole, at Brighton?" "Of course they are. But are you going down there to report a leak of water, mister? If so, yours must be a nice comfortable job." The little man laughed mysteriously, and leaving, walked to the corner of Pont Street, where he reported to his colleagues that the birds had flown. Inquiry at Upper Brook Street brought no better result. Mrs. Pollen had not been seen there since the previous day. Already news of the flight had been telephoned to Scotland Yard, who, in turn, telephoned to the Brighton police, and within ten minutes the telegraph wires were at work to the various ports of embarkation, circulating descriptions of the trio—Boyne’s description being furnished by the police at Hammersmith, where he was so well known. That night Gerald sat with Marigold, and both were filled with wonder at what was happening. Expert criminals of the type of the death-dealers never fail to arrange for a safe bolt-hole in case sudden escape becomes necessary. The police knew this well, and had already taken certain precautions for their arrest. The story, of what followed is a brief, but dramatic one.