Having decided not to take Cynthia into his confidence on the subject of Gregg’s complicity, he could not give her his real reason for doubting the importance of the Page clue. Argue as he might, he could not manage to connect the doctor with the strange car, and if he was at the Hammonds’ farm from seven till nine on the twenty-third he could not possibly have been in Carlisle at eight-thirty. Cynthia was gazing at him in astonishment. “But, Uncle Fayre, the car was seen coming away from the farm just after the murder was committed, and you know that that lane doesn’t go beyond the farm. It must have been coming from there and there are hardly liked to have been two cars with _Y.0.7._ on the number-plate and a cracked mudguard. You can’t rule the car out altogether!” “The tramp may have been lying. We haven’t cleared him yet, remember,” objected Fayre. “The carter’s honest enough, anyway, and he backed up everything the tramp said. After all, the real description of the car came from him. And you’ve always said you were sure Mrs. Draycott was driven to John’s.” “I still think she was driven there, but we can’t afford to ignore the fact that cars have been known before now to turn up a blind lane and come back in a hurry, after finding out their mistake and that’s what this car may very well have done. I’m all for tracing this man Page, if we can, but I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he found a car already at the gate of the farm when he got there and that all he did was to turn round and go back the way he had come. I’m only trying to save you from possible disappointment, my dear.” “In that case, we’re just where we were before,” sighed the girl, her hopes cruelly dashed. Fayre suddenly realized that, in his determination not to be diverted from his pursuit of Gregg, he had allowed himself to wound and discourage Cynthia. He was conscious, too, that his case against the doctor was getting lamentably weak and that only his native obstinacy prevented him from admitting it. “My dear, what nonsense!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Don’t you see the immense importance of getting in touch with the one person who was actually on the spot at the time of the murder, even if he didn’t actually commit it, and, mind you, I don’t say that he didn’t. For all we know, though, he may have seen the thing happen and it’s hardly possible that he didn’t hear the shot. If we do get him, it will be your doing. You’ve been invaluable.” Cynthia had been watching him closely. “I believe you do mean it,” she said at last, “and are not saying it just to comfort me.” The car drew up before the broad double flight of steps that led to the great oak doors of Staveley, and Cynthia prepared to get out. “But I would most awfully like to know,” she added over her shoulder, “what you’ve got up your funny old sleeve.” With that she ran up the steps and disappeared into the house, leaving Fayre staring in front of him, a comic picture of dismay.