“’Erbert, ’ere, were down at the railway station. ’E ’eard ’em asking about people takin’ tickets fer London an’ that. I said, ‘No London in it,’ I said. ‘She took the bus fer Glastonbury,’ I said. So ’Erbert said—”

“What makes you think it was the same young lady that’s missing?” inquired the constable, receiving his pint with a wink at the barmaid, who leaned her elbows on the counter to hear.

“Not local stuff, she weren’t,” said old Tom sagely. “A mite too thin, and that. One o’ they London diets, I shouldn’t wonder,” continued the old man, pretending not to notice the flattering silence which had fallen on the room. “An’ luggin’ a great ’eavy bag like that, and runnin’ arter the bus, all dazed like, arter lookin’ right at it, you might say, without movin’ ’and or foot till it was just about too late. She’d a-gone flat on her face on the step, she would, if young Jessop ’adn’t caught ’er arm and drug ’er up inside. Gave ’im a fright, too, I can tell you!”

“When was all this, Tom?” The constable was interested now.

“When I was a-standin’ down in the square watchin’ of the buses, like I always do, ’long about noon time today.”

“It might be the one, at that,” said the constable, and drained his tankard. “I’ll go along and tell ’em at the station, before they close. They might make something out of it. How was she dressed, this girl you saw?”

“Might be somethin’ blue,” said old Tom with nonchalance, and buried his face in his beer. “Pretty creetur,” he added, half emerging. “But wants fattenin’ — nothin’ to get a man’s bed warm o’ nights, he, he, he—” He disappeared again, into his beer.

“Blue,” said the constable. “That’s right. Carrying a bag. Glastonbury bus. Well, no harm in letting them know at the station.”

But Hilary had slipped out the door ahead of him and was hurrying towards the square where the last bus for Glastonbury was loading. He waited on the curb till its gears went home, and then swung on through the open back door and dropped into a seat near the rear. I really must solve this transportation problem, he thought. There must be some way to get about without all this trouble.

It was quite dark when they got to Glastonbury, and the Pilgrim Inn was dim and quiet. He walked into the deserted hall, and with a quick glance round stepped into the office and sought the register. The last signature of the day amused him. Mary Smith, he read, and beside it, No. 27.