"Damn it, man!" exploded Hugh. "Do you imagine I don't know my own girl's writing?"
"A good many bank cashiers have mistaken their customers' writing before now," said the other, unmoved. "I don't like it, Captain. A girl in real trouble wouldn't put in that bit about the bearer."
"You go to hell," remarked Hugh briefly. "I'm going to Godalming."
"Well," drawled the American, "not knowing Godalming, I don't know who scores. But, if you go there—I come too."
"And me," said Peter, brightening up.
Hugh grinned.
"Not you, old son. If Mr. Green will come, I'll be delighted; but I want you here at headquarters."
He turned round as his servant put his head in at the door.
"Car here, sir. Do you want a bag packed?"
"No—only my revolver. Are you ready, Mr. Green?"
"Sure thing," said the American. "I always am."
"Then we'll move." And Peter, watching the car resignedly from the window, saw the American grip his seat with both hands, and then raise them suddenly in silent prayer, while an elderly charlady fled with a scream to the safety of the area below.
They did the trip in well under the hour, and the detective got out of the car with a faint sigh of relief.
"You've missed your vocation, Captain," he murmured. "If you pushed a bath-chair it would be
