“Changeable weather,” Reggie said. “Come on, Lomas, all aboard! Are we downhearted? No!” The car shot forward. And when it stopped in Woking:
“Is my hair white, Fortune?” Lomas said.
The two stood humbly aside while the expert was busy with the corpse. “As often as I’ve seen this game, sir, I’ll never like it,” Bell said, and Lomas nodded. But Reggie Fortune whistled as he worked.
When he turned from the body and put a scrap of something in his pocket-book—“Well, what is it?” Lomas said. “He was drowned, I suppose?”
“He was drowned all right—about tea-time last night. Say at dusk. Now for the scene of death. Where is it?”
“Just by a bridge on a by-road somewhere between here and Byfleet Station.”
“I ask you, why does a gentleman of fashion about to commit suicide come and look for a bridge on a by-road somewhere between here and Byfleet Station?”
“Somebody’s took some pains in this Charlecote business,” the Superintendent said.
Reggie laughed. “The Superintendent touches the spot—as ever. Come on!”
He stopped his car some distance from the bridge, and they went forward on foot.