“No. I sat with Mr. Peters for about half an hour, then as my business was not finished and he wanted to square up for the night, we decided to dine together at my club in Gower Street. It was not worth while going back to my own office, so I went straight from Peters’ to the club.”
“And you did not notice anything peculiar about Mr. Gething?”
“Not specially on that night. He seemed absolutely as usual.”
“How do you mean, not specially on that night?”
“He had been, I thought, a little depressed for two or three weeks previously, as if he had some trouble on his mind. I asked when first I noticed it if there was anything wrong, but he murmured something about home troubles, about his wife not being so well—she is a chronic invalid. He was not communicative, and I did not press the matter. But he was no worse this afternoon than during the last fortnight.”
“I see. Now, what brought him back to the office to-night?”
Mr. Duke made a gesture of bewilderment.
“I have no idea,” he declared. “There was nothing! Nothing, at least, that I know of or can imagine. We were not specially busy, and as far as I can think, he was well up to date with his work.”
“Is there a postal delivery between half-past four and the time your office closes?”
“There is, and of course there might have been a telegram or a caller or a note delivered by hand. But suppose there had been something important enough to require immediate attention, Gething would never have taken action without consulting me. He had only to ring me up.”