"How did he receive your communication?"
"Oh, it took him fairly between the eyes. There is no denying that. He knows something."
"What he knows," said Innes, slowly, "is what Mr. Harley learned last night, and what he fears is what has actually befallen the chief."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood beside the Burmese cabinet, restlessly drumming his fingers upon its lacquered surface. "I am grateful for one thing," he said. "The press has not got hold of this story."
"They need never get hold of it if you are moderately careful."
"For several reasons I am going to be more than moderately careful. Whatever Fire-Tongue may be, its other name is sudden death! It's a devil of a business; a perfect nightmare. But—" he paused—"I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that parcel of linen to the analyst."
"The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not engaged upon any wild-goose chase."
"By heavens!" Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he reached for his hat, "that gives me an idea!"
"What is it?"
"The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley evidently made his first call there! I'm off, sir! The trail starts from that house!"
