“We stayed at the Regina and found it quite good. But we just broke the journey for a night. Next day we came on here.” “To these rooms?” “No. I hadn’t taken them then. We stayed a night at the Houston. That’s the night I had such a joke on Stanley.” “That sounds interesting.” “I don’t know how he did it, but while he was dressing he knocked the basin off the stand and it broke and soaked his shoes and deluged the room. You know they have old-fashioned separate basins there, not running water as you get abroad. I imagine he must have set the basin down on a corner of the towel, and when he picked up the towel it twitched the basin off. The wretched thing must have been cracked, for it went into two pieces. But they charged him for it, all right.” “Rough luck, Mr. Pyke. And after that you both thought one night enough to stay?” Pyke laughed. “I wanted rooms,” he explained. “Next day I found these and moved in.” “I suppose your late cousin went back to Ashburton at the same time?” “Not quite directly, I think. He went to see some people near Bath. I believe he said for two days only, but I’m not sure.” “Do you soon return to the Argentine, Mr. Pyke?” “I’ve not made up my mind. I like this country and I’m half thinking of settling down here and growing flowers for the London market. I’m sick of ranching, anyway, and I’ve instructed my solicitors to begin negotiations for the sale of my property. Of course I’ll have to go out to see to that, but I think I’ll come back very soon.” They continued chatting about the Roman remains in Provence until at last French looked at his watch and said he must go. He was jubilant as to his progress. He believed that he had accounted for his presence and that Pyke suspected nothing. He had also obtained enough information to check practically the whole of the man’s movements from his departure with Stanley for his holiday down to the present time. The end of the affair was in sight. And that evening, he promised himself, should see him a step farther on his road. Chapter Eighteen On Hampstead Heath French telephoned for a relief to take over the shadowing of Pyke during the afternoon, but by six o’clock he was back in Kepple Street, with the intention of being, if possible, present at the rendezvous of his new suspects. “He’s not shown up since,” Sergeant Harvey explained. “No one called, but one person left the house, a girl of about twenty. She returned in about two hours.” “Tall, good-looking girl, fair hair and blue eyes?” French suggested. “I know her—the landlady’s daughter. I saw her when I called. That’ll do, Harvey. You can get away. I shall manage alone.” It was a fine evening, but cold. The last glimmerings of daylight were disappearing from the sky and outside the radius of the street lamps stars began to show. It looked as if there would be frost later.