Reggie spread out his hands. “That’s faith.”
“Mr. Fortune! When I said I had come about the Carwell case, you said, ‘Oh, my prophetic soul!’ You don’t believe the evidence, then. You never did. You always thought there was something they didn’t find out.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Reggie said slowly. “That’s the last word now. And it may be the last word in the end.”
“You!” she said, and held out her hand.
When she was gone, Reggie stood looking at the place where she had sat. “God help us,” he said, rare words on his lips. And the place he went to was Scotland Yard.
Lomas was occupied with other sublime officials. So Superintendent Bell reported. He had also been telephoning for Mr. Fortune. Mr. Fortune was admitted and found himself before a large red truculent man who glared. “Hallo, Finch. Is this a council of war?” said Mr. Fortune; for at that date Mr. Montague Finchampstead was the Public Prosecutor.
“Lomas tells me”—Finchampstead has a bullying manner—“you’ve formed an opinion on the evidence in the Carwell case.”
“Then he knows more than I do. The evidence was all right—what there was of it.”
“The chain is complete,” Finchampstead announced.
“Yes. Yes. If you don’t pull it hard.”