‘Ancreton, 2A,’ he said. ‘Priority. Quick as you can.’ And while he waited: ‘We may want a car at once, Fox. Ring down, will you? We’ll take Thompson with us. And we’ll need a search warrant.’ Fox went into the next room and telephoned. When he returned Alleyn was speaking. ‘Hallo. May I speak to Miss Orrincourt?…Out?…When will she be in?…I see. Get me Miss Able, Barker, will you?…It’s Scotland Yard here.’ He looked round at Fox. ‘We’ll be going.’ he said. ‘She came up to London last night and is expected back for lunch. Damn! Why the hell doesn’t the Home Office come to light with that report? We need it now, and badly. What’s the time?’

‘Ten to twelve, sir.’

‘Her train gets in at twelve. We haven’t an earthly… Hallo! Hallo! Is that you, Miss Able?…Alleyn here. Don’t answer anything but yes or no, please. I want you to do something that is urgent and important. Miss Orrincourt is returning by the train that arrives at midday. Please find out if any one has left to meet her. If not, make some excuse for going yourself in the pony-cart. If it’s too late for that, meet it when it arrives at the house. Take Miss Orrincourt into your part of the house and keep her there. Tell her I said so and take no refusal. It’s urgent. She’s not to go into the other part of the house. Got that?…Sure?…Right. Splendid. Goodbye.’

He rang off, and found Fox waiting with his overcoat and hat. ‘Wait a bit,’ he said. ‘That’s not good enough.’ And turned back to the telephone. ‘Get me Camber Cross Police Station. They’re the nearest to Ancreton, aren’t they, Fox?’

‘Three miles. The local PC lives in Ancreton parish, though. On duty last night.’

‘That’s the chap, Bream…Hallo!…Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard. Is your chap Bream in the station?… Can you find him?…Good! The Ancreton pub. I’d be much obliged if you’d ring through. Tell him to go at once to Ancreton Halt. A Miss Orrincourt will get off the midday train. She’ll be met from the Manor House. He’s to let the trap go away without her, take her to the pub, and wait there for me. Right! Thanks.’

‘Will he make it?’ Fox asked.

‘He has his dinner at the pub and he’s got a bike. It’s no more than a mile and a half. Here we go, Fox. If, in the ripeness of time, Mr Loame is embalmed by his own firm, I hope they make a mess of him. What precisely did this bogus secretary say?’

‘Just that you’d told him to get a confirmation of the formula. It was a toll-call, but, of course, Loame thought you were back at Ancreton.’