Bassett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole trail ended there after all. He himself had felt, after his interview, with Dick, that the scent was false. And there was this to be said: Gregory had been in the house scarcely ten minutes. Long enough to acknowledge a mistake, but hardly long enough for any dramatic identification. He was keenly disappointed, but he had had long experience of disappointment, and after a moment he only said:
“Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me.”
“I'll say he did.”
“Rather surprised him, didn't you?”
“Oh, he was all right,” Gregory said. “I didn't tell him anything, of course.”
Bassett looked at his watch.
“I was after you, all right,” he said, cheerfully. “But if I was barking up the wrong tree, I'm done. I don't have to be hit on the head to make me stop. Come and have a soda-water on me,” he finished amiably. “There's no train until seven.”
But Gregory refused.
“No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper.”
The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for a bad night and a bad day.