Bundle was silent. She was feeling more and more doubtful. This gilded youth did not sound a very promising ally. And yet it was his name that had come first to the dying man's lips. Bill's voice chimed in suddenly with singular appropriateness.
"Ronny always thought a lot of his brains. You know, Ronny Devereux. Thesiger was his greatest pal."
"Ronny—"
Bundle stopped, undecided. Clearly Bill knew nothing of the other's death. It occurred to Bundle for the first time that it was odd the morning papers had contained nothing of the tragedy. Surely it was the kind of spicy item of news that would never be passed over. There could be one explanation, and one explanation only. The police, for reasons of their own, were keeping the matter quiet.
Bill's voice was continuing.
"I haven't seen Ronny for an age—not since that week-end down at your place. You know, when poor old Gerry Wade passed out."
He paused and then went on.
"Rather a foul business that altogether. I expect you've heard about it. I say, Bundle—are you there still?"
"Of course I'm here."
"Well, you haven't said anything for an age. I began to think that you had gone away."