"I do. I lunched there one day in the middle of last August—I think it was about the sixteenth or seventeenth."
"Will you tell us what happened on that occasion?"
"I had gone into the smoke-room after lunch, and was reading in a high-backed armchair, when I saw the prisoner at the Bar come in with the late Captain Cathcart. That is to say, I saw them in the big mirror over the mantelpiece. They did not notice there was anyone there, or they would have been a little more careful what they said, I fancy. They sat down near me and started talking, and presently Cathcart leaned over and said something in a low tone which I couldn't catch. The prisoner leapt up with a horrified face, exclaiming, 'For God's sake, don't give me away, Cathcart—there'd be the devil to pay.' Cathcart said something reassuring—I didn't hear what, he had a furtive sort of voice—and the prisoner replied, 'Well, don't, that's all. I couldn't afford to let anybody get hold of it.' The prisoner seemed greatly alarmed. Captain Cathcart was laughing. They dropped their voices again, and that was all I heard."
"Thank you."
Sir Impey took over the witness with a Belial-like politeness.
"You are gifted with very excellent powers of observation and deduction, Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson," he began, "and no doubt you like to exercise your sympathetic imagination in a scrutiny of people's motives and characters?"
"I think I may call myself a student of human nature," replied Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson, much mollified.
"Doubtless, people are inclined to confide in you?"
"Certainly. I may say I am a great repository of human documents."
"On the night of Captain Cathcart's death your wide knowledge of the world was doubtless of great comfort and assistance to the family?"