Mr Parker Pyne was soothing. He painted an attractive picture of Greek bandit life. They would be especially careful of their captive, since he represented a potential gold mine. Gradually he calmed her down.

‘But what am I to do?’ wailed Mrs Peters.

‘Wait until tomorrow,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘That is, unless you prefer to go straight to the police.’

Mrs Peters interrupted him with a shriek of terror. Her darling Willard would be murdered out of hand!

‘You think I’ll get Willard back safe and sound?’

‘There is no doubt of that,’ said Mr Parker Pyne soothingly. ‘The only question is whether you can get him back without paying ten thousand pounds.’

‘All I want is my boy.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Parker Pyne soothingly. ‘Who brought the letter, by the way?’

‘A man the landlord didn’t know. A stranger.’

‘Ah! There are possibilities there. The man who brings the letter tomorrow might be followed. What are you telling the people at the hotel about your son’s absence?’

‘I haven’t thought.’

‘I wonder, now.’ Mr Parker Pyne reflected. ‘I think you might quite naturally express alarm and concern at his absence. A search party could be sent out.’

‘You don’t think these fiends—?’ She choked.

‘No, no. So long as there is no word of the kidnapping or the ransom, they cannot turn nasty. After all, you can’t be expected to take your son’s disappearance with no fuss at all.’

‘Can I leave it all to you?’

‘That is my business,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.

They started back towards the hotel again but almost ran into a burly figure.

‘Who was that?’ asked Mr Parker Pyne sharply.

‘I think it was Mr Thompson.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr Parker Pyne thoughtfully.

‘Thompson, was it? Thompson—h’m.’

Mrs Peters felt as she went to bed that Mr Parker Pyne’s idea about the letter was a good one. Whoever brought it must be in touch with the bandits. She felt consoled, and fell asleep much sooner than she could ever have believed possible.

When she was dressing on the following morning she suddenly noticed something lying on the floor by the window. She picked it up—and her heart missed a beat. The same dirty, cheap envelope; the same hated characters. She tore it open.