"No. He only asked me to scribble a note testifying that he was in his right mind. He seemed so to me. The note he put into the envelope along with his manuscript, which I did not look at."
Dr. Fell brushed up the corners of his moustache, keeping on nodding in that monotonous toy-figure way.
"So this is the first time you have ever heard the suspicion mentioned?"
"It is."
"And when did you put the document in the steel box?"
"That night; the night of his death."
"Yes, yes," put in the chief constable, impatiently, "I can see all that. But we're off the subject. Hang it, look here! We've got a motive, right enough, as to why Herbert should have killed Martin. But why should Herbert have killed his uncle, at the start of the whole business? It's getting worse confused… And if he killed Martin, why did he run away? When he'd had to keep his nerve for two years, and kept it successfully, why did he cut along just when he was safe? And what's more-look here! — where was he going on his bicycle, down a back lane and with a bag packed, several hours before the murder? It doesn't look right, somehow…,"
He drew a deep breath, scowling.
"In any case, I shall have to get busy. Dr. Markley wants to hold the inquest tomorrow, and we'll let them decide… In the meantime, 1 had better have the number and description of that bicycle for a general alarm, Miss Starberth. I'm sorry. But it's necessary."
Sir Benjamin was clearly so bewildered that he wanted to break up the conference as soon as possible. You could see a whisky-and-soda in his eye even more clearly than any suspicions. They made their farewells rather awkwardly, with a tendency to bow to the wrong people. Rampole lagged behind at the door as Dorothy Starberth touched his sleeve.