While, therefore, Superintendent Howells in no way relaxed his efforts, French took an early train south. He was in a thoughtful mood as they pulled out of the station. This, it was evident, was going to be one of those troublesome cases in which an ingenious criminal had enveloped his evil deeds in a network of false clues and irrelevant circumstances to mislead the unfortunate detective officer to whom an investigation into them might afterward be assigned. Confound it all! It was not long since he had got rid of that terribly involved affair at Starvel in Yorkshire, and here was another that bade fair to be as bad. However, such was life, and worrying wouldn’t alter it. He was starting on an interesting journey and he might as well forget his case and make the most of the scenery. Chapter Five Messrs. Berlyn and Pyke Shortly before six o’clock that evening French stepped out of the train at the little terminus of Ashburton. He had enjoyed his run, particularly the latter portion through the charming South Devonshire scenery, along the coast under the red cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth, and then inland through the well-wooded hills of Newton Abbot and Totnes. He was pleased, too, with the appearance of Ashburton, a town T-shaped in plan and squeezed down into the narrow valleys between three hills. He admired its old world air and its pleasant situation as he walked up the street to the Silver Tiger, the hotel to which he had been recommended. After a leisurely dinner he went out for a stroll, ending up shortly after dark at the police station. Sergeant Daw had gone home, but a constable was despatched for him and presently he turned up. “I went to the works at once, sir,” he explained in answer to French’s question. “They’re out at the end of North Street. A big place for so small a town. They employ a hundred or more men and a lot of women and girls. A great benefit to the town, sir.” “And whom did you see?” “I saw Mr. Fogden, the sales manager. He turned up the information without delay. The duplicator was ordered from London and he showed me the letter. You can see it if you go up to-morrow. There was nothing out of the way about the transaction. They packed the machine and sent it off, and that was all they could tell me.” Suspiciously like a wild-goose chase, thought French as he chatted pleasantly with the sergeant. Like his _confrère_ at Burry Port, the man seemed more intelligent and better educated than most rural policemen. They discussed the weather and the country for some time and then French said: “By the way, Sergeant, the name of this Veda Works seemed vaguely familiar when you telephoned it. Has it been in the papers lately or can you explain how I should know it?”