“You’re not staying at ‘The George,’ Bill. Not officially. You’re going back to London.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. Ask Cayley to have your luggage sent in to Stanton, ready for you when you catch a train there after the inquest. You can tell him that you’ve got to see the Bishop of London at once. The fact that you are hurrying back to London to be confirmed will make it seem more natural that I should resume my interrupted solitude at ‘The George’ as soon as you have gone.”
“Then where do I sleep to-night?”
“Officially, I suppose, in Fulham Place; unofficially, I suspect, in my bed, unless they’ve got another spare room at ‘The George.’ I’ve put your confirmation robe—I mean your pyjamas and brushes and things—in my bag, ready for you. Is there anything else you want to know? No? Then go and pack. And meet me at ten-thirty beneath the blasted oak or in the hall or somewhere. I want to talk and talk and talk, and I must have my Watson.”
“Good,” said Bill, and went off to his room.
An hour later, having communicated their official plans to Cayley, they wandered out together into the park.
“Well?” said Bill, as they sat down underneath a convenient tree. “Talk away.”
“I had many bright thoughts in my bath this morning,” began Antony. “The brightest one of all was that we were being damn fools, and working at this thing from the wrong end altogether.”
“Well, that’s helpful.”