The General patted his orderly’s lean shoulder. “You have done right, old sheep-dog,” he said. “And as the lamb has broken loose from the fold you can go and get food and take a few hours’ rest. Come, Alec! Let us get back and see what Bradshaw has to tell us.”
Azimoolah having vanished over the boundary wall for his lodging in the village, they returned to the house and repaired to the library. Forsyth found a Northwestern timetable and turned up Tring.
“Beaumanoir must have caught the 7.30 down,” he said, running his finger down the page. “It’s a slow train, stopping at every station, and doesn’t go beyond Bletchley.”
The General was growing querulous. “Bletchley!” he snorted. “What the deuce does he want at Bletchley? It’s a little one-horse town in North Bucks, isn’t it?”
“Hold on, it’s more than that,” said Forsyth, still with his finger on the column. “It’s a junction where fast trains stop, and—yes!—he could change there into the North of England express, which calls there at 8.10.”
The two men looked at each other in silence and with something of consternation.
[268]
