“Going far, inspector?” he asked at the first stopping-place.
“Same station as yourself, sir,” the inspector returned affably. “Matter of fact I am going to the same house too. A message came along for Mr. Steadman just after he had started, and as it seemed to be of some importance I thought I would come after him with it myself. I am hoping to be in time to have a word with him before luncheon. Perhaps you could help me, sir.”
“Well, if I can,” Anthony said doubtfully. “There won't be much time to spare, though.”
“Well, if I am too late I am too late,” the inspector remarked philosophically. “It was just a chance. We don't seem to hear of Thompson, sir.”
“We don't,” Anthony assented. “And I expect he is taking care we shouldn't. You'll forgive me, inspector, but the way Thompson has managed to disappear doesn't seem to me to reflect much credit on the police.”
“Ah, I know that is the sort of thing folks are saying,” the inspector commented with apparent placidity. “And it is a great deal easier to say it about the police methods than to improve upon them. However, like some others, Thompson may find himself caught in time. One of our great difficulties is that so little is known about him, his friends, habits, etc. Even you don't seem able to help us there, Mr. Anthony.” The inspector shot a lightning glance at the young man's unconscious face.
Anthony shook his head.
“Always was a decent sort of chap, old Thompson, or he seemed so—I always had a bit of a rag with him when I went to the office. Known him there years, of course. But, if you come to ask me about his friends, I never saw the old chap in mufti, as you might say, in my life. Still, I don't think Thompson had any hand in murdering Uncle Luke.”
“I know. You have said so all along,” the inspector remarked. “But, if you don't think he had anything to do with the murder, what do you think of his disappearance?”
“Suppose the old chap had been helping himself to what wasn't his, and got frightened and bolted.”