“No option,” Jefferson said, with a return to his usual curt manner. “Not my choice, I assure you. Had to take what I could jolly well get.”
“Rotten, I know,” Roger replied sympathetically, watching the other curiously. In spite of himself and what he felt he knew he could not help a mild liking for this abrupt, taciturn person; a typical soldier of the wordless, unsocial school. It struck Roger at that moment that Jefferson, whom he had been inclined to regard at first as something of a sinister figure, was in reality nothing of the sort. The man was shy, exceedingly shy, and he endeavoured to hide this shyness behind a brusque, almost rude manner; and as always in such a case, this had produced an entirely mistaken first impression of the man himself behind the manner. Jefferson was downright; but it was the downrightness of honesty, Roger felt, not of villainy.
Roger began, half unconsciously, to rearrange some of his ideas. If Jefferson was concerned in Stanworth’s death, then it would be because there was a very excellent reason for that death. All the more reason to probe into Stanworth’s affairs.
“Going to stay down here long, Jefferson?” he asked, with an obvious yawn.
“Not very. Just got to finish off this job I’m on now. You turn in. Must be getting pretty late.”
Roger glanced at his watch. “Close on twelve. Right, I think I will, if you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?”
“Nothing, thanks. I shall have a go at it before breakfast myself. Got to get cleared up in here by eleven. Well, good-night, Sheringham, and many thanks.”
Roger sought his room in a state of some perplexity. This new conclusion of his with regard to Jefferson was going to make things very much more complicated instead of more simple. He felt a strong sympathy with Jefferson all of a sudden. He was not a clever man; certainly he was not the brains of the conspiracy. What must his feelings be when he knew, as indeed he must know, that Roger was tracking out things that would, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred and with only very ordinary luck, have remained undiscovered for ever? How must he regard the net which he could see spread to catch him, and with him—whom?
Roger dragged a chair up to the open window, and sat down with his feet on the sill. He felt he was getting maudlin. This had every appearance of a thoroughly cold-blooded crime, and here he was feeling sorry already for one of its chief participants. Yet it was because Jefferson, as he saw now that the scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes, was such a fine type of man—the tall, thin, small-headed type that is the real pioneer of our race—and because he himself genuinely liked all three members of that suspicious trio, that Roger, without necessarily giving way to maudlin sentiment, was yet unable to stifle his very real regret that everything should point so decisively to their guilt.
Still, it was too late to back out now. He owed it to himself, if not even to them, to see the thing through. Roger could sympathise more fully now with Alec’s feelings on the matter. Curious that he should after all have come round in the end to that much-derided point of view of Alec’s!