“Not the least, sir. If you had asked me I shouldn't have thought Mr. Thompson would have known Miss Hoyle if he had met her.”
“And yet Miss Hoyle's portrait was found in Thompson's room,” Mr. Steadman said very deliberately. “One might say the only thing that was found there in fact.”
“Was it, indeed, sir?” Young Brunton looked dumbfounded. “Well, if they were friends, there was none of us in the office suspected it,” he finished.
“And that was rather remarkable among such a lot of young men as there were at Luke Bechcombe's,” remarked John Steadman. “They generally have their eyes open to everything. Now as to where they were when you overheard them. You do not think you could recognize the place again?”
“I am afraid not, sir. You see, the fog alters everything so. I seemed to have been wandering about for hours when I heard Thompson's voice, and it appeared to me that I walked about for hours afterwards before the fog lifted. When it did I was quite near home, but I haven't the least idea whether it meant that I had been sort of walking round about in a circle, or whether I had been further afield.”
“Anyway we shall have all that neighbourhood combed out,” interposed Inspector Furnival. “If Mr. Thompson is in hiding anywhere there I think that we may take it his capture is only a matter of time. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Brunton. I will let you know in good time when your evidence is likely to be required.”
“Thank you, sir.” With an awkward circular bow intended to include both men Mr. Brunton took his departure.
The inspector shut the door behind him.
“What do you think of that?”
“I was surprised,” Steadman answered. “Surprised that they were not more careful,” he went on. “There is nothing more unsafe than talking of one's private affairs abroad in a fog. Buses and trains are child's play to a fog.”