Grant waited until the postman had
left a publisher's circular (the only letter for The Hollies by the
second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and went
out. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard again,
and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.
No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P.C. Robinson on guard.
That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently taking the
air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs were
locked in his belt. From that strategic position three roads came under
observation.
It was a fine morning, and Grant's sense of humor was not proof against
this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of
"Sherlock," as Bates had christened the policeman.
The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until
it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked
on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant
to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P.C. Robinson, who,
of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off to
the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards
sprint.
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