“I should like nothing better than the car, but that I am afraid the fact that we are going down to Southampton in her might leak out—and then the journey might be in vain.”
John Steadman drew in his lips.
“Trust me for that. My chauffeur can keep a still tongue in his head; and you ought to know me by now, Furnival.”
“I ought, sir, that's a fact,” the inspector acquiesced. “It is the chauffeur I am doubtful of. Never was there a case in which servants' gossip has been more concerned and done more harm than this one of Luke Bechcombe's death.”
“I will take care that he knows nothing of our destination until after we have started,” Steadman promised, “but these cold winds of late have given me a stiff arm, and I am afraid rheumatism is setting in. It is the right arm too, confound it! Of course it might last the journey to Southampton all right, but it might not; and it wouldn't do to risk a failure.”
“No, we can't afford a failure,” the inspector said briskly. “The car then, sir, and you will take all precautions. Have you heard anything of Mrs. Carnthwacke?”
“Lying at death's door. Mrs. Bechcombe has inquired,” Steadman said laconically.
The inspector smiled warily.
“We shall have all our time to keep Cyril B. quiet till we want him to speak. Their American detective is here too, butting in, as they phrase it. Ten o'clock then.”
“Ten o'clock,” Steadman assented.