"We shall be in your office in a very few minutes, and I prefer to name it there."
"Very well." Bullard restrained himself and fell to thinking hard. What had brought France to the inquest? The question repeated itself maddeningly. The tragedy had not been mentioned in the morning papers—their early editions, at any rate.
Teddy gave him a minute's grace, then casually remarked—
"You heard from my friend, Alan Craig, this morning, I believe.
Miraculous escape, wasn't it?"
"Very…. Yes, I have a letter from Mr. Craig—to which I shall reply—direct."
"Alan is an odd chap," Teddy pursued. "No sooner is he home and in safety than he makes his will. Did it at his lawyer's in Glasgow, the day before yesterday."
After an almost imperceptible pause—"Indeed!" said Bullard, a little thickly. "Only I'm afraid I don't happen to be interested in Mr. Alan Craig's affairs."
"Sorry," Teddy murmured, and gave him another minute's grace. Then—
"Awful end that for poor old Flitch, Mr. Bullard."
The man's face, nay, his whole body, contracted for an instant; yet he was still master of himself.