THE MISSINGMortimer Headlock might not have looked a man of particular stamina, but he certainly put that of his companions to the test. Taking the most circuitous route to an apparent nowhere Fothergill had ever seen, Headlock paced the London fogs with the assuredness of a mountain goat up a slippery hillside. Like a procession of ducklings trusting to their mother, Headlock led and the other two followed.
Fothergill, last in the line, strove to keep up with his older companions. Despite their more advanced years, particularly so Lord Cuthbert whose craggy face gave only a glimpse of his true age, they were men with purpose and their purpose was haste. It did not help that his superior cast frequent glances in every possible direction; it was most disconcerting. Fothergill knew the Metr
