Saville rose from his box in the stiff, unnatural manner of a man under the influence of hypnotism. Then he lifted his hand and pointed at Smythe with an extended forefinger:
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Saville sat back, and for a little while he leaned against the wall with a distant smile, seeming to be recalling some memory of the long ago. At last his lips parted and he spoke in a half whisper:
“The Rainhurst match!”
He leaned forward. The other three were looking at him in appreciation.
Smythe began to explain. “I looked ahead and I saw what things would be like if the worst came true. My idea was that if, in the end, it had to be done, we could scratch that match last of all, but I decided to hang on to the fixture. I said nothing to anyone until a fortnight or so ago, when the Rainhurst secretary wrote and said that he’d heard we’d been scratching a lot of matches, and did our fixture with them still stand. Then I consulted Nicholson. And he wanted to ask Rouse. So we all three discussed it and I wrote back.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said,” admitted Smythe, “that we should be there.”
The silence was acute. At last Rouse broke it.