He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the compliment.
“You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.”
“On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.”
Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the country decorated so beautifully.
“Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!”
Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he questioned.
Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly.
But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid side.
“I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.”
Goodall’s face again registered surprise. “You seem remarkably well informed, Mr. Bathurst——”