The detective gripped her by the shoulder and a wave of apprehension swept over him. “I sent no note. How long ago was this?”

“A quarter of an hour. I⁠—”

But Labar had flung away from her. He was running at the top of his speed in the direction of the railway station. He was, perhaps for the first time in his life, conscious of deadly fear. Instinctively he knew that such a note could have only come from one person. How Larry Hughes could have known where Penelope was, why he should take the heavy risk of being in Rye at all were matters on which the detective did not stay to reason. Enough it was to know that the girl was in danger.

He stayed only to fling an abrupt question to the porter guarding the platform. “Has any train gone out in this last ten minutes?”

“No, sir. There’s one on the other side just going out for London. Heigh, you can’t go through without a ticket.”