so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He
turned to the landlady.

"I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of
place I want. Now let's see the parlour."

The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to
match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday
Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the
old, yellow-back, two shilling edition.

"Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?"

"Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a
week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with."

"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones.

"No, sir."

"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station,
and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and
the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the
station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing
I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance."

She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted.

When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for
supper, or would he prefer late dinner.

"Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular."

Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think.
Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that
was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he would
avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use
the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act
with caution.

Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful
point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed.

One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from
Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover
was a logical man.

There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this
thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and
horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow.
Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without
creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get
out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed
hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all
day in his room in the face of such weat