"It is evident," said Paul Cremarre, with a low laugh, "that, whatever you have eaten from, and whatever you have eaten of, to-night, my Runnells, it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?"
"Look here!" said Runnells suddenly. "If you want to know, I'll tell you. I know everything's fixed for to-night, maybe better than it's ever been fixed before—it ain't that. It's last night. It's damned queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms!"
"Ah!" murmured Paul Cremarre. "Yes, my Runnells, I too have thought of that. But you were at home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves was murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence—yes? You should know better than I do."
"There's nothing to know," said Runnells shortly. "It's just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to our diggings. Like a warning, somehow, it looks."
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "Quite so! And the headlights now—hadn't you better switch them off? And run a little slower, Runnells. It is not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings."
Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened its speed.
"You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard," resumed the Frenchman calmly. "You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe returned from the club the night before last at—what time was it, he said?"
"Oh, that's straight enough!" grunted Runnells. "He came in about half past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir Harris that never done him any harm?"
"Nothing," said Paul Cremarre. "I was simply thinking that Sergeant Mullins' theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps remember."
"What's that?" inquired Runnells.