That was all right with me, but:
“You didn’t say anything to him, I hope.”
“Say anything to him?” She seemed amazed. “Do you think I would insult him by repeating your guesses—your absurd guesses?”
“That’s fine,” I applauded her silence if not her opinion of my theories. “Now, I’m going to stay here tonight. There isn’t a chance in a hundred of anything happening, but I’ll play it safe.”
She didn’t seem very enthusiastic about that, but she finally went off to bed.
Nothing happened between then and sunup, of course. I left the house as soon as daylight came and gave the grounds the once over. Footprints were all over the place, from water’s edge to driveway. Along the driveway some of the sod was cut where machines had been turned carelessly.
Borrowing one of the cars from the garage, I was back in San Francisco before the morning was far gone.
In the office, I asked the Old Man to put an operative behind Jack Garthorne; to have the old hat, flashlight, sandal and the rest of my souvenirs put under the microscope and searched for finger prints, foot prints, tooth-prints or what have you; and to have our Richmond branch look up the Garthornes. Then I went up to see my Filipino assistant.
He was gloomy.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Somebody knock you over?”
“Oh, no, sir!” he protested. “But maybe I am not so good a detective. I try to follow one fella, and he turns a corner and he is gone.”