"Then there's a side-door to that shop—into some alley or passage," said Gilling.
"Not that I could find," answered Swallow. "Might be at the rear of the premises perhaps, but I couldn't ascertain, of course. Remember!—there's another thing. He may have stopped on the premises. There's that in it. However, I know the shop and the name."
"Why didn't you bring somebody else with you, to follow the man and the luggage?" demanded Gilling, half-petulantly.
Swallow shook his head.
"There I made a mess of it, I confess," he admitted. "But it never struck me they'd separate. I thought, of course, they'd drive straight to some hotel, and———"
"And the long and the short of it is, Greyle's slipped you," said Gilling. "Well—there's no more to be done tonight. The only thing of value is that Greyle called at the Fragonard. What's a country squire—only recently come to England, too!—to do with the Fragonard? That is worth something. Well—Copplestone, we'd better meet in the morning at Petherton's. You be there at ten o'clock, and I'll get Sir Cresswell Oliver to be there, too."
Copplestone betook himself to his rooms in Jermyn Street; it seemed an age—several ages—since he had last seen the familiar things in them. During the few days which had elapsed since his hurried setting-off to meet Bassett Oliver so many things had happened
