“Mr. Murthwaite!” I said. “Neither Pawley nor Sir Charles Sperrigoe asked for any explanation! Sperrigoe, of course, never saw Mr. Parslewe; Pawley came here as a mere spy——”
“Yes, yes!” he interrupted. “But what I really mean is, why didn’t he give some explanation to you?”
“To me!” I exclaimed. “Why to me?”
“Because you were the only person who knew the—shall we say immediate facts of the case?” he replied. “Evidently, although you have only known each other a few days, he trusts you, Mr. Craye. Why didn’t he give you a brief explanation of this seeming mystery instead of stealing away in the night? Why?”
“As I said!” exclaimed Madrasia. “For good reasons—of his own.”
Murthwaite drummed his fingers on the table, regarding us intently.
“Don’t you see?” he said suddenly. “Don’t you realise the suspicion he has brought on himself? Sir Charles Sperrigoe doesn’t know him.”
“I’m not so sure of that!” said I, with equal suddenness. “Anyway, I’m quite sure he knows Sperrigoe—or knew him once. Sure of it from a remark he made when I was telling him about Sperrigoe.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Murthwaite. “What remark?”
I told him. He rose suddenly from his chair, as if an idea had struck him, and for a minute or two paced the room, evidently thinking. Then he came back to the table, resumed his seat, and turned from one to the other, pointing to the two telegrams which still lay where he had put them down.