‘Hullo!’ said Abbershaw, a little nettled to have his occupation so accurately described. ‘How’s the Ritual going?’
Mr Campion looked a trifle embarrassed.
‘Oh, jogging along, I believe. Two hours’ clean fun, don’t you know.’
‘You seem to be missing yours,’ said Abbershaw pointedly.
The young man appeared to break out into a sort of Charleston, apparently to hide further embarrassment.
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I got fed up with it in there,’ he said, still hopping up and down in a way Abbershaw found peculiarly irritating. ‘All this running about in the dark with daggers doesn’t seem to me healthy. I don’t like knives, you know – people getting excited and all that. I came out to get away from it all.’
For the first time Abbershaw began to feel a faint sympathy for him.
‘Your car here?’ he remarked casually.
This perfectly obvious question seemed to place Mr Campion still less at ease.
‘Well – er – no. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. To be exact,’ he added in a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I haven’t got one at all. I’ve always liked them, though,’ he continued hastily, ‘nice, useful things. I’ve always thought that. Get you where you want to go, you know. Better than a horse.’