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Presently their big acetylene lights picked out a caped policeman standing in the centre of the roadway, his arm upraised for them to halt. They could see his bicycle resting on the grass. As they stopped, he advanced and, glancing at the number on the bonnet, scrutinised the two detectives sharply. "It's all right, constable," said Malley. "We're not the people you're looking for.
I shall detain him a day before making any charge against him at all. Drive on, Malley. See you later, Green." The car whizzed away. Chief Inspector Green stood bare-headed in front of the house, scratching his head, and with a look of bewilderment on his face.
Then something met his eye on a spike of blackthorn, and he carefully picked off a thread of brown cloth. "We're done for to-night, I'm afraid," he said. "He's gone off the track and got into the wood. We'll get back, Malley, and try to find a room or somewhere to sleep near here. Then we can turn out with daylight. But first of all we must 'phone to the Yard.
So he bundled together a couple of copies and sent them South with a short letter; and therefore it came about in due season, through the good offices of the United States Post-office Department, that these enclosures reached the judge on a showery afternoon as he loafed upon his wide front porch, waiting for his supper. First, he read Malley's letter and was glad to hear from Malley.
Malley, I'll be glad to have those messages, and to put a call through to Mr. Foyle." He followed Malley into an inner room, and the local man handed him a couple of messages which had been telephoned to Scotland Yard by the county police, and one sent by Foyle immediately after his interview with Dutch Fred, giving amplified particulars of the car.
This had happened some years back, but Malley was still on the staff of the Sun. It happened also that, going through the paper to clip out and measure up his own space, Malley came upon the corporal's contribution. Glancing over it idly, he caught the name, twice or thrice repeated, of the town where Judge Priest lived.
If you have read certain other stories of mine you may remember that, upon a memorable occasion, Judge William Pitman Priest made a trip to New York and while there had dealings with a Mr. J. Hayden Witherbee, a promoter of gas and other hot-air propositions; and that during the course of his stay in the metropolis he made the acquaintance of one Malley, a Sun reporter.
Sooner or later Grell, if he were in the neighbourhood, would learn of the presence of Green and Malley. His attention would be concentrated on what they were doing. Foyle, acting independently, was looking for an opening to attack from the rear. He had a great opinion of Grell's capacity for getting out of awkward situations.
The bugler stood in the verandah outside the orderly room, ready to blow his calls or strike the hours with a hammer on a suspended length of railway line. At the entrance gate, standing sharply to attention as a guardsman should, even under a blazing sun, was Private Malley, of the Irish Guards, wounded long ago, now wearing the brassard of the Military Police.
"Yes, I sold some of them," she replied. This gave them a basis for conversation, and they progressed famously until the grinning face of a railroad-construction stiff appeared suddenly at the door. "Hey!" he called to other stiffs behind him. "Look wot's goin' on!" "Hello, there, 'Squinty' Malley!" and Jo laughed. "Get your face out of that door. This is sacred ground, you roughneck!"
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