Forbes halted on the step of the automobile and glanced at his watch.

“I shall be home in an hour,” he said.  “After that I shall not stir out all day.  Telephone me if you have any news.  Why not dine with us tonight?”

Theydon’s eyes sparkled.  He was longing to meet Evelyn Forbes once more, but a wretched doubt diminished the glow of gratification which the prospect brought.  Should he, or should he not, tell the girl’s father of the rather indiscreet admissions she had made during their brief talk that morning?

That minor worry, however, was banished suddenly and forever.  Furneaux, taking the three steps which led from entrance hall to pavement with a flying leap, cannoned right into Forbes, whom he grasped with both hands, quite as much by way of emphasis as to check the impetus of his diminutive body.

“In with you!” he piped.  “Tell your chauffeur to obey my orders, no matter what they are!”

Action, determination, were as the breath of the millionaire’s nostrils.  He aroused himself instantly.

“You hear, Downs!” he said to the chauffeur.

Downs was one of those strange beings who have been evolved by the age of petrol, an automaton compounded, seemingly, of steel springs and leather.  He had long ago lost the art of speech, having cultivated delicacy of hearing and quickness of sight at the expense of all other human faculties.  The old-time coachman possessed a certain fluent jargon, which enabled him to chide or encourage his horses and exchange suitable comments with the drivers of brewers’ drays and market carts, but the modern chauffeur is all an ear for the rhythm of machinery, all an eye for the nice calculation of the hazards of the road fifty yards ahead.

At any rate, Downs mumbled something which resembled “Yes, sir,” Forbes sprang in and slammed the door, Furneaux raced round the front of the car and perched himself beside Downs, and the heavy automobile was almost into its normal stride before it had traveled twice its own length.

Theydon was left gaping on the pavement.  He saw that the car turned west, and caught a glimpse of Furneaux’s outstretched hand with forefinger pointing like the barrel of a pistol.

“Fool!” he cried, in bitter self-apostrophe.  “Why didn’t I jump in after Forbes?  Now I am out of the hunt!  I wonder what the deuce Furneaux saw or heard?”

That concluding thought sent him back to the flat, two steps at a time.

“Bates!” he shouted.  “Has Mr. Furneaux used the telephone, or did any one ring up?”

“No, sir,” said Bates, coming hurriedly at that urgent call.  “Fust thing I knew was he was tearin’ out, an’ runnin’ downstairs like mad.”

“O, double-distilled idiot that I am!” growled Theydon again.  “Why didn’t I go with them!”

As though the gods heard his plaint and meant to crush him with their answer, the telephone bell sounded at his elbow.  Mechanically, he lifted the receiver off its hook, and immediately became aware of Tomlinson’s voice, with some element of flurry and distress in its unctuous accents.