He scribbled an address on the back of a card and placed it on the table.
Fayre picked it up and slipped it into his pocket-book.
“Anything’s worth while at this stage of the game,” he admitted thoughtfully.
He stood hesitating, considering his next move. Knowing Gregg’s quick temper, he found considerable difficulty in clothing the question that was trembling on his lips in a form the other would not immediately resent, but he knew that he could not let the man go until he had an answer.
“I wish you’d tell me one thing,” he said at last.
“Fire away. I’m not going off the deep end again, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” answered Gregg with disconcerting intuition.
“Can you give me your movements from, say, five onwards on the evening of the murder? I’ve a good reason for asking.”
Gregg looked genuinely surprised; then his lips parted in a rather grim smile.
“I’m blessed! You’ve got it all pat, haven’t you? It was about five when I left the house and I bet you’re perfectly aware that I went straight to Stockley’s garage at Whitbury and hired a car. Mine was out of commission. You’ve been putting in some hard work, Mr. Fayre, and if you don’t know already that I went on to Willow Farm on a maternity case, I’ll eat my hat. However, you shall have the whole program. I picked up the car at Stockley’s at about five-thirty and made straight for Hammond’s, that is, the Willow Farm. There’s a little village, you may or may not know, about three miles from Whitbury on the Besley road. I was going through when a boy ran out of one of the cottages and yelled something at me. I stopped the car and shouted back that, unless it was urgent, I could not see any one just then. Mrs. Hammond’s a delicate little woman and I was anxious about her. However, it was urgent. A wretched baby had pulled over a kettle of boiling water and scalded its legs and one arm. It was in a bad way and it was over an hour before I got away, with the result that I didn’t get to Willow Farm till close on seven. I left Hammond’s somewhere about nine, drove home and went on, almost immediately, to Leslie’s farm.”
Fayre stood observing him with some chagrin. It was obvious that the man was speaking the truth, and, in any case, his story would be easy enough to verify. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said ruefully, “that you’ve just cheerfully demolished my best clue. If it wasn’t for John Leslie I would tell you, quite honestly, that I’m uncommonly glad. As it is, I feel rather cheap. I’d got all your movements except for the hour lost on the way to Willow Farm. You must admit that it looked suspicious, taking into account the fact that Mrs. Draycott met her death somewhere about six-thirty.”