“I imagine he’s caught the train, sir,” John answered with imperturbable calm.
He thought the other came near to knocking him down, for he clenched his fist, but after a savage exclamation went back to the car.
“The engine won’t move her. How are we going to get her out?” he said.
“I could give you a pull, sir,” John replied with respectful gravity, “They keep a rope at the station for shunting. Perhaps you had better send the driver, sir.”
THE DROVE ROAD
Foster spent the next day lounging about Edinburgh and looking out for Daly, whom he had expected to follow him. He, however, saw nothing of the man, and felt half disappointed, because he missed the excitement of the chase. It was too cold and wet to roam the streets with much enjoyment, there was no good play at the theaters, and he had seen picture palaces in Canada. Moreover, he had led an active life, and having nothing to do soon began to get irksome. It was curious that he had never felt bored at the Garth, even when he scarcely saw Alice during the day, but then the Garth had a peculiar charm. It was possible that Daly had gone back there, and he had been a fool to leave.
He was sitting in the hotel smoking-room next morning when a stranger came up and sat down close by. The man had a quiet, thoughtful air, and lighted his pipe. There was nothing about him to indicate his rank or occupation, and Foster wondered what he wanted.
“I hope you won’t object to my asking if you’re a Canadian?” he said.
“I don’t know if I object or not. Anyhow, I’m English.”
“But perhaps you have been in Canada,” the stranger remarked politely.
Foster looked hard at him. “I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance, but had better hint that you’re wasting time if you’re a friend of Daly’s.”
The stranger smiled and Foster saw that he had been incautious. “I don’t know the gentleman.”
“Then what is your business?”
“If you insist on knowing, I’m connected with the police.”
“Well,” said Foster, “I’ll pay you a compliment by stating that I wouldn’t have imagined it; but I don’t understand what the police have to do with me.”
“It’s very possible that they have nothing to do with you, but you can perhaps make that plain. You signed the visitor’s book John Foster, which doesn’t quite correspond with the letters on your bag.”
“Ah!” said Foster, “I begin to understand. No doubt, you noticed Lawrence Featherstone’s name on the lock, and the Canadian Pacific label?”
“I did,” the other admitted with humorous dryness.
Foster pondered. On the whole, he was glad he had registered in his proper name, though he had been tempted to give Featherstone’s, in case Daly made inquiries. He had, however, decided that the latter probably thought they were both in Great Britain and would expect them to keep together. He did not doubt that his visitor belonged to the police, because an impostor would be easily found out.