“Yes. He lived in Leeds for several years, and I think that it’s in Leeds that we shall catch him.”

“Well, I hope so,” said Cunningham, and then another thought struck him.

“Wilkinson was not murdered at all, then?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I should have mentioned that. The autopsy on Wilkinson, as you know, showed that no poison was present. He died of heart failure, and had suffered from valvular disease of the heart for many years. It was merely coincidence that he had died at the British Museum. It is possible, indeed, that this was what gave Moss the idea of his plot.”

“I see,” said Cunningham. “And what do we do next?”

“As I said, wait for the results to come in. There’s nothing else that we can do, really. Every policeman in Great Britain will be looking for them by now, and within the next few hours we shall know something about it.”

The telephone rang, and Shelley eagerly grasped the receiver.

“What’s that?” he said excitedly. “Put them through to here at once. This sounds important.”

He waited for a moment and then spoke again. “Where?” Cunningham heard him ask. “Outskirts of Sheffield? Yes. On the main Manchester road? Yes. What time? Right. Your men chasing them? Right. We’ll follow straight away.”

“Found them, sir?” asked Cunningham.

“Yes,” said Shelley. “They were seen half an hour ago by a man on point duty in Sheffield. Apparently they were making for Manchester—out on the main Manchester road from Sheffield, anyway. Look up trains for Sheffield, Cunningham. It looks to me as if we are soon to be in at the death.”

Feverishly Cunningham took up a time-table and began searching it.

“Mr. Moss, we have you!” Shelley exclaimed, giving way to the somewhat melodramatic vein which was occasionally to be detected in him.

Then a constable entered. “A gentleman to see you, sir,” he announced. “He wants to speak to you about the Arnell case—or so he says.”

“Who is he?” asked Shelley.

“Won’t give a name, sir.”

“Train in forty minutes from St. Pancras, sir!” said Cunningham.

“I can give the gentleman ten minutes,” snapped Shelley. “I only hope it isn’t that little fathead Henry Fairhurst again.”

The constable retired, then came back and threw open the door. Shelley and Cunningham gazed at each other as if they doubted their sanity. Shelley’s case had been so carefully constructed that neither of them doubted that it was accurate in every detail. The kidnapper of Miss Violet Arnell was now somewhere outside Sheffield, speeding along in a fast car, and closely pursued by the Yorkshire police. Yet…yet…their visitor was none other than Mr. Moses Moss!

Chapter XV

Chapter XV

The Adventures of Violet Arnell