“Good! Or, better still, lunch with me on Sunday at the Troc.”
“Excellent! I’ll be there at one. By the way, if Gregg was making the night train he’ll get in about six-twenty. Tell your man to be careful. He’s no fool, remember.”
“Thanks. See you Sunday, then.”
Fayre was hanging up the receiver when a voice at his elbow made him start.
“What’s this? Not the naughty doctor doing a bunk? Now, that looks fishy, if you like!”
Bill Staveley had come in unperceived and had overheard Fayre’s last sentence.
“He’s off,” answered Fayre. “Met him just now on the way to the Junction, luggage and all. It looks as if he’d got the wind up.”
Staveley glanced at his watch.
“Even if you’re only just back he was allowing time and to spare for the five-forty. What makes you think he was going to London?”
“Nothing. He may not have been going by train at all.”