“That probably explains it,” he said aloud. “When I had to swerve out of his way, I must have missed one of the entrance gates before I got back in touch with the pavement again. If that's so, then obviously I'm in the wrong house. But whose house is it?”
He re-entered the smoke-room and looked round in search of some clue. A writing-desk stood over against one of the walls, and he crossed to it and took up a sheet of paper from a note-paper case. The heading was what he wanted: “Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue, Westerhaven.”
“That's what happened,” he reflected, with a faint satisfaction at having cleared the point up so simply. “I'm next door to Silverdale's place, evidently, I can 'phone from there.”
It occurred to him that he had better be on the safe side and make sure of his information by adding the name of the householder when he rang up the Chief Constable. A fresh search among the pigeon-holes of the desk produced a letter in its original envelope addressed to “Edward Hassendean, Esq.” Dr. Ringwood put it down again and racked his memory for an association with the name. He had paid only the most perfunctory attention to Markfield's talk, earlier in the evening, and it was some seconds before his mind could track down the elusive data.
“Hassendean! That was the name of the cub who was hanging round the skirts of Silverdale's wife, I believe.”
He glanced at the body on the chesterfield.
“It might be that youngster. The police will soon find out from the contents of his pockets, I expect. Besides, the rest of the family will be home soon. They must be out for the evening, and the maids too. That accounts for the house being empty.”
He pulled out his pocket-book and scanned the note he had made of the boy's disjointed utterance.
“Caught me . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never guessed . . .”
A flash of illumination seemed to pass across Dr. Ringwood's mind as he re-read the words. In it he saw a frivolous wife, a dissolute boy, and a husband exasperated by the sudden discovery of an intrigue; a sordid little tragedy of three characters. That seemed to be a plain enough explanation of the miserable affair. Markfield's suspicions had clearly been fairly near the truth; if anything, they had fallen short of the real state of affairs. Something had precipitated the explosion; and Dr. Ringwood idly speculated for a moment or two upon what could have led to the husband's enlightenment.