Only once could he remember having made any mistake in the way he played the cards dealt out to him by fate, and what added bitterness to the memory now was the fact that he made the mistake with his eyes open. He cursed himself for having once been persuaded into doing a thing which at the time he knew was imprudent. That once was when he agreed to take Lavender with him by boat to Fairbridge Manor. But for that he would not now be in this parlous plight. Even supposing he had still committed the murder—which actually was never in his mind when he set out—he still would not have been seen and been rendered subject to the mercies of an emotional woman. Lavender would never have suspected him, and he could have kept his own counsel and had no fear of nerves.
It was impossible for him to keep his mind from memories and turn it to the future. He could only think of what had been and what might have been, not of what was to be. Never before had his thinking powers played him false like this; will and foresight were dispossessed by memory just at the moment when he needed them as he had never needed them before. That was the most pregnant fact of all, and he did not perceive it. If he thought of the present it was only with some vague satisfaction that every moment was taking him farther away from peril.
In the hospital the depositions were taken, and the grey man looked across at the inspector of police and left the room with him. And soon the inspector left the hospital and went to see his chiefs. There was no evidence against any individual, for the name of the man who rowed her up to Fairbridge had not escaped Lavender's lips, but Melville had not obeyed the summons she had sent him, and the inspector was not alone in wanting to know why. He went to Jermyn Street and asked for Mr. Ashley.
"I don't think he's at home," the hall porter said, and the inspector went upstairs. On the top landing he met Jervis coming from another set of rooms. "I want to see Mr. Ashley," he said again.
"He's dining out," said Jervis.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite," said Jervis. "I saw him dress, and a commissionaire brought him a message just as he was finished. I haven't been in his rooms since, but I'm sure he's out."
"Show me," said the inspector, and something about him quelled Jervis's usual breezy impertinence.
"Look for yourself, if you don't believe me," he said, unlocking the door and flinging it wide open. "Perhaps you will believe your own eyes."
The room bore unmistakable evidence of Melville's flight. His dress clothes were flung upon the sofa, his despatch box stood open on the table, his writing-table drawers were unlocked. Jervis's face of surprise only confirmed the inspector's previous idea.