sane preparations for a journey, including the purchase of a toothbrush, an indispensable toilet adjunct, which Franklin, admirable fellow that he is, invariably forgets to put into my case, we started for Southampton.  And along the jolly Portsmouth Road we went, through Guildford, along the Hog’s Back, over the Surrey Downs rolling warm in the sunshine, through Farnham, through grey, dreamy Winchester, past St. Cross, with its old-world almshouse, through Otterbourne and up the hill and down to Southampton, seventy-eight miles, in two hours and a quarter.  Jaffery drove.

We began our search.  First we examined the playbills at the various places of entertainment.  Ras Fendihook was not playing in Southampton.  We went round the hotels, the South-Western, the Royal, the Star, the Dolphin, the Polygon—­and found no trace of the runaways.  Jaffery interviewed officials at the stations and docks, dapper gentlemen with the air of diplomatists, tremendous fellows in uniform, policemen, porters, with all of whom he seemed to be on terms of familiar acquaintance; but none of them could trace or remember such a couple having crossed by the midnight boats of Thursday or Friday.  Nor were their names down on the list of those who had secured berths in advance for this Saturday night.

“You’re rather at fault,” said I, rather maliciously, not displeased at my masterful friend’s failure.

“Not a bit,” said he.  “Fendihook’s leaving on Sunday certainly means that he was starting to fulfill a provincial engagement on Monday.  If it was a week’s engagement, he crosses to-night.  We’ve only to wait and catch them.  If it was a three nights’ engagement, which is possible, he and Liosha crossed on Thursday night.  In that case we’ll cross ourselves and track them down.”

“Even if we have to go over the Andes and far away,” I murmured.

“Even so,” said he.  “Now listen.  If he’s had a week’s engagement he must be finishing to-night.  In order to catch the boat he must be working in the neighbourhood.  Savvy?  The only possible place besides this is Portsmouth.  We’ll run over to Portsmouth, only seventeen miles.”

“All right,” said I, with a wistful look back at my peaceful, comfortable home, “let us go to Portsmouth.  I’ll resign myself to dine at Portsmouth.  But supposing he isn’t there?” I asked, as the car drove off.

“Then he went to Havre on Thursday.”

“But suppose he’s at Birmingham.  He would then take to-morrow night’s boat.”

“There isn’t one on Sundays.”

“Then Monday night’s boat.”

“Well, if he does, won’t we be there on Tuesday morning to meet him on the quay?  Lord!” he laughed, and brought his huge grip down on my leg above the knee, thereby causing me physical agony, “I should like to take you on an expedition.  It would do you a thundering lot of good.”