“That’s a rather hopeless way of looking at it,” observed Fullaway.  “You’ve got the cleverest police in Europe on the search for them; also you’ve got our friend Allerdyke and myself on the run, and we’re neither of us exactly brainless.  So hasten home in this taxi-cab, get some lunch, have an hour’s nap, and then begin putting your papers straight and looking for those references.  Search well!—­you don’t know what depends on it.”

He and Allerdyke strolled up Whitehall when Celia had gone—­in silence at first, both wrapped in meditation.

“There’s only one thing one can say with any certainty about this affair, Allerdyke,” remarked the American at last, “and that is precisely what the man we’ve been talking to said—­it’s a big do.  The folk at the back of it are smart and clever and daring.  We’ll need all our wits.  Well, come along to the Waldorf and let’s lunch—­then we’ll talk some more.  There’s little to be done till the Princess turns up tomorrow.”

“There’s one thing I want to do at once,” said Allerdyke.  “If I’m going to stop in town I must wire to my housekeeper to send me clothes and linen, and to the manager at my mill.  Then I’m with you—­and I wish to Heaven we’d something to do!  What I can’t stand is this forced inaction, this hanging about, waiting, wondering, speculating—­and doing naught!”

“We may be in action before you know it’s at hand,” said Fullaway.  “In these cases you never know what a minute may bring forth.  All we can do is to be ready.”

He led the way to the nearest telegraph office and waited while Allerdyke sent off his messages.  The performance of even this small task seemed to restore the Yorkshireman’s spirits—­he came away smiling.

“I’ve told my housekeeper to pack a couple of trunks with what I want, and to send my chauffeur, Gaffney, up with them, by the next express,” he said.  “I feel better after doing that.  He’s a smart chap, Gaffney—­the sort that might be useful at a pinch.  If any one wanted anything ferreted out, now!—­he’s the sense of an Airedale terrier, that chap!”

“High praise,” laughed Fullaway.  “And original too.  Well, let’s fix up and get some food, and then we’ll go into my private rooms and have a talk over the situation.”

Mr. Franklin Fullaway, following a certain modern fashion, introduced into life by twentieth-century company promoters and magnates of the high finance, had established his business quarters at his hotel.  It was a wise and pleasant thing to do, he explained to Allerdyke; you had the advantage of living over the shop, as it were; of being able to go out of your private sitting-room into your business office; you had the bright and pleasant surroundings; you had, moreover, all the various rooms and saloons of a first-rate hotel wherein to entertain your clients if need be.  Certainly you had to pay for these advantages and luxuries, but no more than you would have to lay out in the rents, rates, and taxes of palatial offices in a first-class business quarter.