No one but the self-occupied type of fool that Abbershaw was pretending to be could possibly have failed to notice the man’s wretched state of nervous tension. He was quivering and his voice was entirely out of control. Abbershaw wrote his signature with a flourish, and returned the pen. There was a distinct sigh of relief in the room as he moved towards the door.
On the threshold he turned and looked back.
‘Poor young Petrie knows all about this, I suppose?’ he inquired. ‘I trust he’s not very cut up? Poor lad.’
‘Mr Petrie has been informed, of course,’ Dr Whitby said stiffly. ‘He felt the shock – naturally – but like the rest of us I fancy he must have expected it for some time. He was only a relative by his aunt’s marriage, you know, and that took place after the war, I believe.’
‘Still,’ said Abbershaw, with a return of his old fussiness of manner, ‘very shocking and very distressing – very distressing. Good night, gentlemen.’
On the last words he went out and closed the door of the great sombre room behind him. Once in the corridor, his expression changed. The fussy, pompous personality that he had assumed dropped from him like a cloak, and he became at once alert and purposeful. There were many things that puzzled him, but of one thing he was perfectly certain. Colonel Gordon Coombe had not died of heart disease.
CHAPTER V
The Mask
Abbershaw made his way quietly down the corridor to Wyatt’s room. The young man had taken him into it himself earlier in the day, and he found it without difficulty.
There was no light in the crack of the door, and he hesitated for a moment before he knocked, as if undecided whether he would disturb its occupant or not, but at length he raised his hand and tapped on the door.
There was no reply, and after waiting a few minutes he knocked again. Still no one answered him, and obeying a sudden impulse, he lifted the latch and went in.