“Yes.” Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, “You’re staying near here?”
“I’m at ‘The George,’ at Woodham.”
“If you’re by yourself, I wish you’d put up here. You see,” he went on awkwardly, “you’ll have to be here—for the—the inquest and—and so on. If I may offer you my cousin’s hospitality in his—I mean if he doesn’t—if he really has—”
Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.
“That’s good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he’s a friend of yours. He’s a good fellow.”
Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had hesitated to say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother alive. It didn’t follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer. Revolvers go off accidentally; and when they have gone off, people lose their heads and run away, fearing that their story will not be believed. Nevertheless, when people run away, whether innocently or guiltily, one can’t help wondering which way they went.
“I suppose this way,” said Antony aloud, looking out of the window.
“Who?” said Cayley stubbornly.
“Well, whoever it was,” said Antony, smiling to himself. “The murderer. Or, let us say, the man who locked the door after Robert Ablett was killed.”
“I wonder.”