Finch thought it over. "I sent Charles up to fetch down the Captain's suitcase," he mused. "That would have been at about half past ten. Now I come to think of it, it was half past ten, sir, for Charles was, as you might say, hanging around, waiting for the Captain, and he happened to pass the remark to me -" He stopped, and gave a deprecatory cough. "Well, sir, he drew my attention to the time, him having his regular work to get on with."
Harding looked at Francis. "Do you agree with that estimate of the time, Captain Billington-Smith?"
"I always agree on trivial points," replied Francis. "It saves trouble."
"That's all, then, thank you," said Harding, nodding dismissal to Finch. "Now that we have succeeded in establishing that fact, I want to know when you arrived in London, please."
"Hope seems to spring eternal in your breast. Inspector. I'm tempted to give you a probably erroneous but definite answer -just to please you."
"I shouldn't," said Harding. "Was it before lunch or after?"
"After. Early afternoon." He met the Sergeant's intent gaze, and raised one slender hand. "I know exactly what you are thinking, my very dear friend. We have met before, have we not? You are quite right: it would have been much more like me to have made London in time for lunch. Such was the general intention. Fate, however, one puncture, and one clogged jet decreed otherwise. The memory of that drive is still rather painful."
"Did you stop for lunch on the road?" asked Harding.
"I ate an extremely disgusting meal at the Stag, at Bramhurst."
"Bramhurst!" ejaculated the Sergeant. "Bramhurst's no more than a matter of forty miles from here, sir!"