Reggie broke off suddenly.
"Why, I believe it was he who was in the punt last night," he said, "and was standing on the lawn with that girl you sang at——"
"Didn't notice him particularly," said Charles.
"No, you were noticing somebody else particularly. But I feel sure it was he. As I say, he was taking an American round last week, who bought a couple of little Dutch pictures. He stopped at my desk on the way out and borrowed my pen and wrote a cheque for £5000 right straight off, without coughing. I remember he said he was going to post-date it. But he didn't tip me."
"I don't quite know what this is all about," remarked Charles.
"Nor do I. I hoped it was just agreeable conversation. Don't you find it so? But I bet you what you like that the fat white man in the punt was Craddock."
Reggie lay further back against his brother's legs.
"I see a great tragedy ahead," he said, "with inquests and executions. Craddock is about to marry the girl of the punt, and Charles will cut his throat, and——"
"Whose throat?" asked Charles.
"His own or Craddock's; perhaps Craddock's first and his own afterwards. Then there will be a sensational trial, and I can't bother to make up any more. Are you going to paint all the morning, Charles?"