“After all,” he reflected, “it may not have been Dr Twiddel who drove away; in fact, if it was he who arrived in the first cab, it’s any odds against it. Pooh! It can’t be. Still, it’s a curious thing if two cabs loaded with luggage came to the house in the same evening, and one drove away without unlading.”
With his spirits a little damped in spite of his philosophy, he went back to his rooms.
In the morning the consulting-room blinds were still down, and the house looked as deserted as ever.
He waited till lunch, and then he went out boldly and pulled the doctor’s bell. The same little maid appeared, but she evidently did not recognise the fashionable patient [pg 201] who disappeared so mysteriously in the demure-looking clergyman at the door.
“Is Dr Twiddel at home?”
“No, sir, he ain’t back yet.”
“He hasn’t been back?”
“No, sir.”
Mr Bunker looked at her keenly, and then said to himself, “She is lying.”
He thought he would try a chance shot.