“I was, as it happened. I went out to a dance. But I'd a sore throat; and the fog made it worse; so I came away very early and got home as best I could. But it wasn't my car that knocked anyone down. I never had an accident in my life.”
“You might have been excused in that fog, I think, even if you had a collision. But evidently it's not your car we're after. What was the number of the car we heard about, Inspector?”
Flamborough consulted his notebook.
“GX.9074, sir.”
“Say that again,” Markfield demanded, pricking up his ears.
“GX.9074 was the number.”
“That's the number of my car,” Markfield volunteered.
He thought for some time, apparently trying to retrace his experiences in the fog. At last his face lighted up.
“Oh, I guess I know what it is. When I was piloting Dr. Ringwood that night, a fellow nearly walked straight into my front mudguard. I may have hurt his feelings by what I said about his brains, but I swear I didn't touch him with the car.”
“Not our affair,” Sir Clinton hastened to assure him. “It's a matter for your insurance company if anything comes of it. And I gathered from Dr. Ringwood that you didn't exactly break records in your trip across town, so I doubt if you need worry.”