For a moment Fayre was taken aback, then he found himself welcoming the prospect of her company for an entire afternoon. He feared her sharp eyes and direct mode of attack, but, more even than these, he dreaded his own thoughts. Cynthia was the embodiment of youth and courage and, after his night of miserable indecision, he felt a positive craving for the stimulus of her society.
As though in answer to his needs she seemed even more vividly alive than usual when he picked her up and carried her off to an unpretentious, but very select, little restaurant he and several of the older members of his club affected. Cynthia had stipulated for a quiet place where her ready tongue could wag freely. She had plenty to say. Bill Staveley had managed to procure her another interview with John Leslie and she reported him as cheerful and inclined to take a hopeful view of the future.
“He says that, so long as he knows he’s innocent and that I believe in him, he doesn’t mind what happens; but he doesn’t realize how black things look against him,” said Cynthia. “He’s frightfully grateful to you and Edward Kean and full of faith in you both. I tried not to show how anxious I was. Uncle Fayre, they surely can’t convict him if he’s innocent, can they?”
On the face of this Fayre found it hard to break to her the news that Gregg had completely cleared himself. To his relief she took it more cheerfully than he had expected.
“I never really suspected him, you know,” she said. “I suppose I should have been beast enough to be glad if he had done it, because it would have cleared John, but I should have been sorry, too. It would be too horrible if it was some one that one knew. It’s a relief, in a way. Has Mr. Grey done anything about the Page clue? I always felt that that was where our hope lay.”
“He’s working on the Carlisle to London route, on the chance that the car may have got held up somewhere and, if that fails, he proposes to advertise openly for Page. If, as I still think, the man had nothing to do with the actual murder, he may come forward. On the other hand, it would be a mistake to warn him by advertising too soon. It is a last resort.”
“I believe he did it,” asserted Cynthia obstinately. “If we can find Page we shall get to the bottom of the whole thing. You know the police have let the tramp go? He ended by confessing that he took Mrs. Doggett’s money and I made her go up to the station and speak for him. He’s very lame still and the police want him to stay in the neighbourhood, so Bill found him a room in one of his cottages. I went to see him. He’s a funny little man and we got quite chummy, but he’s determined to go back to ‘the road,’ as he calls it, as soon as he can get away. He told me that he had been tramping for years and he’s got all sorts of interesting stories about tramps and burglars and all kinds of queer people and he adores you. When I spoke about John he said: ‘The gentleman’ll get ’im off, you see,’ as if you were a kind of Providence. He’s rather a pet, really. What did you do to make him love you so?”
“Treated him like a human being, I suppose. He’s not going back to the road, if I can help it, poor little beggar. He’s never had a chance and I’d like to give him one.”
“If we do get onto that man, Page, he’ll deserve it. After all, it was through him that we first heard of the strange car.”
“When I get my cottage I’ll see what I can find for him to do. He’s not a pleasing object at present, but he’ll improve with prosperity.”