Then he
turned off his torch. "Looks easy," he remarked, "but of course there's
the garrison." Once more he turned on his light, to look at his watch.
"Can't stop now, or I shall miss the train, and I don't want to have to
get a bed at Sprotsfield. A strayed reveler on Christmas night might be
too well remembered. Got an address?"
"Care of Mrs. Willnough, Laundress, Inkston."
"Right. Good-night." With a quick turn he was off along the road to
Sprotsfield. The Sergeant saw the gleam of his torch once or twice,
receding at quite a surprising pace into the distance. Feeling the wad of
notes in his pocket--perhaps to make sure that the whole episode had not
been a dream--the Sergeant turned back towards Inkston.
After a couple of minutes, a tall figure emerged from the shelter of a
high and thick gorse bush just opposite Tower Cottage, on the other side
of the road. Captain Alec Naylor had seen the light of the stranger's
torch, and, after four years in France, he was well skilled in the art of
noiseless approach. But he felt that, for the moment at least, his brain
was less agile than his feet.
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