He had been quick to see through Drillford's plans. There was a case, a
strong _prima facie_ case against Hyde, and the police would work it up
for all they were worth. Failing proofs in other directions, failing the
discovery of the real murderer, how was that case going to be upset? And
was it likely that he and Pawle were going to find any really important
evidence in an obscure Buckinghamshire market-town?

He jumped into a cab at the top of Bedford Row and hastened back to
Markendale Square to pack a bag and prepare for his journey. Miss
Penkridge called to him from the drawing-room as he was running upstairs;
he turned into the room to find her in company with two ladies--dismal,
pathetic figures in very plain and obviously countrified garments, both
in tears and evident great distress, who, as Viner walked in, rose from
their chairs and gazed at him sadly and wistfully. They reminded him at
once of the type of spinster found in quiet, unpretentious cottages in
out-of-the-way villages--the neither young nor old women, who live on
circumscribed means and are painfully shy of the rude world outside. And
before either he or Miss Penkridge could speak, the elder of the two
broke into an eager exclamation.

"Oh, Mr. Viner, we are Langton's sisters! And we are so grateful to
you--and oh, do you think you can save him?"

Viner was quick to seize the situation. He said a soothing word or two,
begged his visitors to sit down again, and whispered to Miss Penkridge to
ring for tea.

"You have come to town today?" he asked.

"We left home very, very early this morning," replied the elder sister.