CHAPTER SIXTEEN“I swear there’s something, Jock. The name ‘Dorward’ shook him quite a bit,” said James.
He was back at Scotland Yard again, reporting to Macdonald: the time was now nine o’clock in the evening. Reeves was pursuing his own researches in the hinterland of Paddington (probably entertaining “somebody’s dream of Arabian nights”) and Macdonald had been having a long telephone conversation with Fordworthy in Plymouth.
“This case needs a mind like a radio receiving set, geared to pick up different wave lengths,” said Macdonald resignedly. “I’ve never met such a collection of extremes: we’ve got Reeves’s bunch of charmers, about as dirty a set of chislers as the dregs of civilisation can produce: a psychiatrist whose training and intelligence represent civilisation at its highest—
