Ferse’s disappearance was a holiday to the feelings of one who had suffered greatly since his return. That he had engaged to end that holiday by finding him was not enough to spoil Adrian’s relief. Almost with zest he set out for Hilary’s in a taxi, applying his wits to the problem. Fear of publicity cut him off from those normal and direct resorts—Police, Radio, and Press. Such agencies would bring on Ferse too fierce a light. And in considering what means were left he felt as when confronted with a cross-word puzzle, many of which he had solved in his time, like other men of noted intellect. From Dinny’s account he could not tell within several hours at what time Ferse had gone out, and the longer he left enquiry in the neighbourhood of the house, the less chance one would have of stumbling on anyone who had seen him. Should he, then, stop the cab and go back to Chelsea? In holding on towards the Meads, he yielded to instinct rather than to reason. To turn to Hilary was second nature with him—and, surely, in such a task two heads were better than one! He reached the Vicarage without forming any plan save that of enquiring vaguely along the Embankment and the King’s Road. It was not yet half past nine, and Hilary was still at his correspondence. On hearing the news, he called his wife into the study.

“Let’s think for three minutes,” he said, “and pool the result.”

The three stood in a triangle before the fire, the two men smoking, and the woman sniffing at an October rose.

“Well?” said Hilary at last: “Any light, May?”

“Only,” said Mrs. Hilary, wrinkling her forehead, “if the poor man was as Dinny describes, you can’t leave out the hospitals. I could telephone to the three or four where there was most chance of his having been taken in, if he’s made an accident for himself. It’s so early still, they can hardly have had anybody in.”

“Very sweet of you, my dear; and we can trust your wits to keep his name out of it.”

Mrs. Hilary went out.

“Adrian?”

“I’ve got a hunch, but I’d rather hear you first.”

“Well,” said Hilary, “two things occur to me: It’s obvious we must find out from the Police if anyone’s been taken from the river. The other contingency, and I think it’s the more likely, is drink.”

“But he couldn’t get drink so early.”

“Hotels. He had money.”

“I agree, we must try them, unless you think my idea any good.”

“Well?”

“I’ve been trying to put myself in poor Ferse’s shoes. I think, Hilary, if I had a doom over me, I might run for Condaford; not the place itself, perhaps, but round about, where we haunted as boys; where I’d been, in fact, before Fate got hold of me at all. A wounded animal goes home.”

Hilary nodded.

“Where WAS his home?”

“West Sussex—just under the Downs to the north. Petworth was the station.”

“Oh! I know that country. Before the war May and I used to stay a lot at Bignor and walk. We could have a shot at Victoria station, and see if anyone like him has taken train. But I think I’ll try the Police about the river first. I can say a parishioner is missing. What height is Ferse?”

“About five feet ten, square, broad head and cheek-bones, strong jaw, darkish hair, steel-blue eyes, a blue suit and overcoat.”

“Right!” said Hilary: “I’ll get on to them as soon as May is through.”

Left to himself before the fire, Adrian brooded. A reader of detective novels, he knew that he was following the French, inductive method of a psychological shot in the blue, Hilary and May following the English model of narrowing the issue by elimination—excellent, but was there time for excellence? One vanished in London as a needle vanishes in hay; and they were so handicapped by the need for avoiding publicity. He waited in anxiety for Hilary’s report. Curiously ironical that he—HE—should dread to hear of poor Ferse being found drowned or run over, and Diana free!

From Hilary’s table he took up an A.B.C. There had been a train to Petworth at 8.50, another went at 9.56. A near thing! And he waited again, his eyes on the door. Useless to hurry Hilary, a past-master in saving time.

“Well?” he said when the door was opened.

Hilary shook his head.

“No go! Neither hospitals nor Police. No one received or heard of anywhere.”

“Then,” said Adrian, “let’s try Victoria—there’s a train in twenty minutes. Can you come rightaway?”

Hilary glanced at his table. “I oughtn’t to, but I will. There’s something unholy in the way a search gets hold of you. Hold on, old man, I’ll tell May and nick my hat. You might look for a taxi. Go St. Pancras way and wait for me.”

Adrian strode along looking for a taxi. He found one issuing from the Euston Road, turned it round, and stood waiting. Soon Hilary’s thin dark figure came hurrying into view.

“Not in the training I was,” he said, and got in.

Adrian leaned through the window.

“Victoria, quick as you can!”

Hilary’s hand slipped through his arm.

“I haven’t had a jaunt with you, old man, since we went up the Carmarthen Van in that fog the year after the war. Remember?”

Adrain had taken out his watch.

“We just shan’t do it, I’m afraid. The traffic’s awful.” And they sat, silent, jerked back and forth by the spasmodic efforts of the taxi.

“I’ll never forget,” said Adrian, suddenly, “in France once, passing a ‘maison d’aliйnйs,’ as they call it—a great place back from the railway with a long iron grille in front. There was a poor devil standing upright with his arms raised and his legs apart, clutching at the grille, like an orang-outang. What’s death compared with that? Good clean earth, and the sky over you. I wish now they’d found him in the river.”

“They may still; this is a bit of a wild-goose chase.”

“Three minutes more,” muttered Adrian; “we shan’t do it.”

But as if animated by its national character the taxi gathered unnatural speed, and the traffic seemed to melt before it. They pulled up at the station with a jerk.

“You ask at the first class, I’ll go for the third,” said Hilary as they ran. “A parson gets more show.”

“No,” said Adrian; “if he’s gone, he’ll have gone first class; YOU ask there. If there’s any doubt—HIS EYES.”

He watched Hilary’s lean face thrust into the opening and quickly drawn back.

“He HAS!” he said; “this train. Petworth! Rush!”

The brothers ran, but as they reached the barrier the train began to move. Adrian would have run on, but Hilary grabbed his arm.

“Steady, old man, we shall never get in; he’ll only see us, and that’ll spill it.”

They walked back to the entrance with their heads down.

“That was an amazing shot of yours, old boy,” said Hilary: “What time does that train get down?”

“Twelve twenty-three.”

“Then we can do it in a car. Have you any money?”

Adrian felt in his pockets. “Only eight and six,” he said ruefully.

“I’ve got just eleven bob. Awkward! I know! We’ll take a cab to young Fleur’s: if her car’s not out, she’d let us have it, and she or Michael would drive us. We must both be free of the car at the other end.”

Adrian nodded, rather dazed at the success of his induction.

At South Square Michael was out, but Fleur in. Adrian, who did not know her so well as Hilary, was surprised by the quickness with which she grasped the situation and produced the car. Within ten minutes, indeed, they were on the road with Fleur at the wheel.

“I shall go through Dorking and Pulborough,” she said, leaning back. “I can speed all the way after Dorking on that road. But, Uncle Hilary, what are you going to do if you get him?”

At that simple but necessary question the brothers looked at each other. Fleur seemed to feel their indecision through the back of her head, for she stopped with a jerk in front of an imperilled dog, and, turning, said: