“Yes,” smiled his chief. “Red herring, I said, and red herring I meant—i.e., namely, and to wit, Mr. Baker.”

“Baker’s innocent, of course.”

“Of course. As pretty a piece of framing-up as I’ve ever encountered. And, by Jove,” added Shelley, “we very nearly fell for it.”

He rang the bell on his desk, and the waiting constable from outside the door came in.

“Message for all stations,” said Shelley, and the constable’s note-book and pencil were produced as if by magic.

“Pull in at once, man with black beard and black greasy hair,” Shelley dictated. “He is in a racing car, believed to be making north, and is accompanied by a young lady…” And he went on to give a detailed description of Violet Arnell. “Add that photograph of the young lady will be following,” he said, “and add that the man may be armed and is certainly a dangerous character—probably a murderer. He has killed twice and may kill again.”

“That all, sir?” murmured the constable in almost bored tones, treating this sensational matter as merely part of the everyday routine—as indeed it was to him, being nothing more unusual than a business letter to a typist in an office.

“Ye-es,” said Shelley thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve missed anything essential—or how does it strike you, Sergeant?”

“Strikes me as being perfectly all right, sir,” said Cunningham.

“Good. Then get that on the wires to all stations,” snapped Shelley briskly. “And tell them to send first to all stations north of London—up as far as Manchester and Sheffield, say. I shouldn’t think they could have got much further than that, although they have managed to get several hours’ lead on us.”

The constable left, and Shelley smiled grimly. “Well, we now sit and wait for news, Cunningham,” he said. “If I were you I should go home and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. We may well have an exciting piece of chasing ahead of us tomorrow.”

“You think so, sir?”

“I hope so.”

“Hope?”

“Well.” Shelley looked serious. “If we don’t get some news within a few hours, I’m afraid we shan’t get any,” he said.

“Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“Don’t forget that Moss is a murderer.”

“And you think he’ll murder Miss Arnell?”

“I don’t think he’d hesitate for a moment. I can’t understand why he didn’t kill her in London as soon as he had managed to get her into that car of his—he may even have done so, though somehow I think not.”

“But what do you think has happened, sir?”

“You really mean that you’d like to hear me talking about this confounded case, O my Cunningham?”

Cunningham grinned. “Yes,” he said.