Clegg sucked his pencil. “I wouldn’t say that you weren’t right. Still—we’ll be doing our best.” He walked to the door—then turned. “I’ll make arrangements about your father”—he nodded towards the body—“and then get down to make my report. Good morning, sir! I’m very sorry, sir.” He stepped into the corridor—then started. Butterworth was waiting there and caught him by the arm. He seemed to be laboring under some tremendous excitement. “Something I didn’t tell you, Sergeant, I _last saw_ Mr. Stewart at _ten o’clock_, but I _heard_ his _voice_ about _ten minutes after that—in that room_!” He stabbed with his finger at the library. “And I heard another voice, too! I heard the voice of Miss Lennox, I’m _certain_!” CHAPTER VIII The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction Peter Daventry glanced at the clock on Paddington platform. He saw with undisguised relief that he was a good quarter of an hour to the good. “Curse this beastly wrist-watch,” he muttered to himself—“it gets worse every day—fairly put the wind up me that time.” He walked to the platform indicator—digested the information thereon applicable to the 6:55—“Didcot, Wantage Rd., Assynton”—and drifted over to the appropriate platform. Arrived there, he scanned the horizon for Anthony Bathurst. The platform was pretty crowded and he could not see the man he wanted. It was unlike Bathurst to arrive at 6:45 for 6:55. He argued that it was a sheer waste of very valuable minutes. Daventry commenced his second tour up the platform when a voice at his shoulder jolted his equilibrium and suddenly brought him to a standstill. “Good evening, Mr. Daventry.” Detective-Inspector Goodall smiled genially and extended what looked like an amicable hand. “Going to try the Berkshire air?” Peter gasped feebly but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp the extended hand—mechanically it must be admitted. Goodall clasped it warmly, but Peter could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists. “Y—es. I’m going down to Assynton.” Then his indignation mastered his surprise and his resentment. “But why the devil are you trailing _me_, Inspector—for it’s pretty evident you _are_ trailing me,” he concluded with asperity. “Not on your life, Mr. Daventry,” replied Goodall—the picture of unruffled imperturbability. “You mustn’t get jumpy like that—or I shall begin to suspect you after all.” He smiled again. “Well then, it’s a wonderful coincidence to meet you here,” remarked Peter ruefully. “Not so wonderful—if you think for a moment.” Peter’s face cleared magically. “Ass that I am,” he declared. “You’re bound for the same destination, of course.” “Now we’re talking,” said Goodall. “The local people down at Assynton have asked ‘the Yard’ to take a look at things down there—just at the very moment, too, when we at ‘the Yard’ were trying to piece the two murders together, somehow! I’m going down. But what about you, Mr. Daventry?” “I’m representing my firm—Mr. Stewart’s son has asked me to run down.”