“It’s awfully good of you if you . . . Oh, Lord, right over the green, as usual . . . But, I say, tell me about Davenant. How did you hear?” “The head waiter was the source of the information, but I gather it is on good authority. According to the gossip of Binver, the police were trying to incriminate your friend Miss Rendall-Smith, and that’s how they got Davenant to own up. Dirty dodge, rather, I think.” “Trying to incriminate her? Then, of course, it was the police who were shadowing her! She told me yesterday she thought she was being watched.” “That would be it, I suppose.” “But then, how did Davenant explain all the things that have been puzzling us all this time?” “I don’t think he’s been interviewed by the _Daily Mail_ yet. But if you mean how he explained the difficulty about the two trains, that’s very simple. It wasn’t done from a train at all.” “Not from a train?” “No. He was walking with Brotherhood along the railway line in the fog, and he lost his temper and pitched him over. At least, that’s the story they’re telling down at Binver.” “Oh, I see. That being so, this for the hole.” They went round again that afternoon. There was really nothing else to be done; but Reeves was in a pitiable state of suspense all the time, and the hours travelled slowly. The 3.47 put down its generous toll of passengers at Paston Oatvile, but no Marryatt among them. Two more trains came in, and still no Marryatt appeared: his place was empty at the dinner-table. Reeves was in terror that he might come back in the middle; in terror that he might not come back at all. At last, as they went out from dinner, they caught sight of his face, looking white and haggard, in the entrance hall. Reeves bounded upstairs, full of relief, while Gordon marked down his man. “Hullo, Marryatt? Had dinner? Good; come and sit in the lounge for a bit. I’d been wanting to see you.” There was only one way to open the conversation. “Have a small something in the whisky line,” he suggested. “No, thanks. Knocked off.” “Knocked off! Why on earth? Are you going to start a Band of Hope? I’m sorry, Marryatt, but I’m afraid you won’t get many members to join.” “No. It’s nothing of that sort. Doctor’s orders, you know.” “First time I ever heard of Beazly prescribing that.” “It wasn’t Beazly. I’ve just been up to London, you know; I went to see a specialist.” “I say, I’m awfully sorry; what’s wrong? Heart?” “Well, it was a sort of nerve man I went to. Didn’t seem to be much use. He talked to me for about half an hour about French cathedrals, and then told me to knock off drinking and smoking.” “Yes, but dash it all, what were your symptoms?” “I say, Gordon, do you believe in—well, in ghosts and things?” “Not more than’s good for me. Why? You been seeing spooks?”