Roger frowned.
"Knew? Dido, one of the most ghastly things about this whole affair is that he must have known. He couldn't have avoided knowing. It was daylight, and when he came out he had to go around that side of the house to get to the garage. I myself noticed the print of his boot—a larger boot than anyone else wears—in the mould of the flowerbed, three feet away from the body."
"Roger! Then he saw her?"
"Of course. He took one look at her, realised what had happened, and saw in a flash that the manner of her death had, so to speak, given the whole show away. After that he didn't waste a second, but set about saving his own damned skin."
"How horrible!" she exclaimed, shuddering.
"You are right, it was horrible—but logical. He was only being true to his type. There is no sentiment about him; he has always despised the rest of us, even Thérèse, who was his accomplice."
In his own room Roger realised for the first time a sense of terrible fatigue. Up till now he had taken no account of the fact that he had had scarcely any sleep for several nights, and in addition to this had in actual fact been suffering from mild typhoid. His mind was still keyed up by excitement, but every muscle in his body ached with weariness. Chalmers had laid out his dressing-gown only, as a plain indication that he should dine in his own room and go to bed. Slowly he turned on the hot water in the bath, and began to divest himself of his coat. As he did so he suddenly recalled the telegram handed him that morning, the message addressed to the dead woman. It had passed completely out of his thoughts. He drew the blue envelope out of his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully. The mark showed that it had been handed in at a small town on the road to Marseilles on the previous evening.
After some hesitation he tore open the flap and spread the paper out, then stared at it thoughtfully. The enclosure read: