“This!”
Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to ripple over Goodall’s face.
“Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking.
“Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young Stewart ’phoning here.”
Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr. Daventry!”
Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or the desire for a private detective.
Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes.
“Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?”
Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being humiliated.
“Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.”