And the difficulty of tracing Chatfield
and his sick companion in a city the size of Bristol did indeed seem
impregnable when Gilling and Copplestone had been attacking it for
twenty-four hours. They had spent a whole day in endeavouring to get
news; they had gone in and out of hotels until they were sick of the
sight of one; they had made exhaustive inquiries at the railway station
and of the cabmen who congregated there; nobody remembered anything at
all about a big, heavy-faced man and a man in his company who seemed to
be very ill. And on the second night Copplestone intimated plainly that
in his opinion they were wasting their time.
"How do we even know that they ever came to Bristol?" he asked, as he and
Gilling refreshed themselves with a much needed dinner. "The Falmouth
landlord saw Chatfield take tickets for Bristol! That's nothing to go on!
Put it to yourself in this way. Greyle may have found even that journey
too much for him. They may, in that case, have left the train at
Plymouth--or at Exeter--or at Taunton: it would stop at each place. Seems
to me we're wasting time here--far better get nearer more tangible
things. Chatfield, for instance. Or, go back to town and find out what
your friend Swallow has done."
"Swallow," replied Gilling, "has done nothing so far, or I should have
heard. Swallow knows exactly where I am, and where I shall be until I
give him further notice.
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