Before the afternoon was over I'd decided on a line of action.
I called up Katie Reilly and asked her if she'd relieve me at five-thirty instead of six—that I'd an invitation to go down to a party at Jersey City and I was keen to get there early. She agreed and at six I was on the platform of the station waiting for the New York train.
I took a seat in the common coach and at Azalea watched from the window and saw a man on the platform give Sands a packet. I knew Sands well and when he passed back through my car nodded to him and he stopped and stood in the aisle talking.
It wasn't long before I said, careless:
"I hear Cokesbury Lodge is for rent."
"I ain't heard it," said Sands, "but I ain't surprised. Now he's sent his family away he don't want a house that size on his hands."
"Has he been down lately?"
"No—not for—lemme see—it's several weeks. Yes—the last time was the Sunday before Sylvia Hesketh's murder."
I knew all that but it doesn't do to jump at what you're after too quick.
"Lucky for him he could prove his car was on the blink that time," I said, looking languid out of the window.