An hour later, as Peter was about to blow out his candle, and go to sleep, his door opened softly, and Charles came in, fully dressed.
"Hullo!" Peter said. "Anything wrong?"
"No, but I've got a fancy to do a little sleuthing myself. Do you feel like accompanying me?"
Peter raised himself on his elbow. "Who are you going to track?"
"Friend Duval. Unless he's clean cracked, he thinks he's on to the Monk's trail, and I can't help feeling it might be worth our while to follow him."
The bed creaked in the adjoining room, and in a moment Margaret appeared in the open doorway with her dressing-gown caught hastily round her. "If you don't want to be overheard you'd better see that the door's shut in future," she said. "Go on. What did Duval say tonight?"
Charles gave them a brief resume of the artist's conversation. Peter sat up when he had finished. "The knife business makes it look as though he's mad," he said, "but if we don't try and find out what he's up to we're a couple of fools. If you'd like to clear out, Sis, I propose to dress."
"You can take your clothes into my room," said his sister disobligingly. "I want to hear some more. Who did he think was following him, Charles?"
"I don't know. The Monk, presumably. I have an idea he's afraid of Strange."
Conscious of her brother's sidelong scrutiny Margaret said calmly: "Why?"