“Not when you started? Not when you left Cuthbert Road?”
“No, sir.”
“But you know when you left the club-house to go back?”
“Only by this—it had not yet begun to snow. I’m told that the first flakes fell that night at ten minutes to eleven. I was on the golf-links when this happened. You can fix the time yourself. Pardon me,” he added, with decided ill-grace as he met Mr. Fox’s frown. “I forgot your injunction.”
Mr. Fox smiled an acrid smile, as he asked: “Whereabouts on the golf-links? They extend for some distance, you remember.”
“They are six hundred yards across from first tee to the third hole, which is the nearest one to Cuthbert Road,” Arthur particularised. “I was—no, I can’t tell you just where I was at that moment. It was a good ways from the house. The snow came on very fiercely. For a little while I could not see my way.”
“How, not see your way?”
“The snow flew into my eyes.”
“Crossing the links?”
“Yes, sir, crossing the links.”