There was very little to go upon there. Why should not one friend give another an address? But the examination? Beaumaroy should surely know of that? It might be nothing, but, on the other hand, it might have a meaning. But the men had gone, had obviously parted for the night. Beaumaroy could be told to-morrow; now he himself could go back to his visions—and so homeward, in happiness, to his bed.
Having reached this sensible conclusion, he was about to turn away from the garden gate which he now stood facing, when he heard the house door softly open and as softly shut. The practice of his profession had given him keen eyes in the dark; he discovered Beaumaroy’s tall figure stealing very cautiously down the narrow, flagged path. The next instant the light of another torch flashed out, and this time not in the distance, but full in his own face.
“By God, you, Naylor!” Beaumaroy exclaimed in a voice which was low but full of surprise. “I—I—well, it’s rather late—”
Alec Naylor was suddenly struck with the element of humor in the situation. He had been playing detective; apparently he was now the suspected!
“Give me time and I’ll explain all,” he said, smiling under the dazzling rays of the torch.
Beaumaroy glanced round at the house for a second, pursed up his lips into one of the odd little contortions which he sometimes allowed himself, and said: “Well, then, old chap, come in and have a drink, and do it. For I’m hanged if I see why you should stand staring into this garden in the middle of the night! With your opportunities I should be better employed on Christmas evening.”
“You really want me to come in?” It was now Captain Alec’s voice which expressed surprise.
“Why the devil not?” asked Beaumaroy in a tone of frank but friendly impatience.
He turned and led the way into Tower Cottage. Somehow this invitation to enter was the last thing that Captain Alec had expected.