“Cartwright in Wimpole Street,” repeated Antony thoughtfully. “Yes, I can remember that. Cartwright in Wimpole Street. Did Cayley go to him too, by any chance?”
“I expect so. Oh, yes, I know he did. But what on earth—”
“What was Mark’s general health like? Did he see a doctor much?”
“Hardly at all, I should think. He did a lot of early morning exercises which were supposed to make him bright and cheerful at breakfast. They didn’t do that, but they seemed to keep him pretty fit. Tony, I wish you’d—”
Antony held up a hand and hushed him into silence.
“One last question,” he said. “Was Mark fond of swimming?”
“No, he hated it. I don’t believe he could swim. Tony, are you mad, or am I? Or is this a new game?”
Antony squeezed his arm.
“Dear old Bill,” he said. “It’s a game. What a game! And the answer is Cartwright in Wimpole Street.”
They walked in silence for half a mile or so along the road to Woodham. Bill tried two or three times to get his friend to talk, but Antony had only grunted in reply. He was just going to make another attempt, when Antony came to a sudden stop and turned to him anxiously.