Kean found Fayre waiting for him when he reached the hotel at Whitbury. Cynthia, he learned, had taken the car to the garage to fill up and Leslie had accompanied her.
“With consummate tact, I said I should prefer to be dropped here to wait for you,” explained Fayre. “Heaven knows how much more time they’ll have together. It strikes me as a black outlook, Edward.”
His kindly face was grave and troubled.
Kean nodded.
“I haven’t been able to get much out of Miss Allen. She is convinced that Leslie had nothing to do with it, and I believe she is right. All the same, his story is weak.”
“It’s the most infernal bad luck! If only he’d gone up to London as he intended! What do you suppose induced poor Mrs. Draycott to go to the farm?”
“If we knew that, Leslie could snap his fingers at them,” answered Kean sombrely.
He pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket as he spoke, and a small red stylographic pen came with it and rolled on the floor at Fayre’s feet. He picked it up and examined it. The cap was missing and, half concealed beneath the mud with which it was plastered, was an inkstain, running right round the pen.
“Hullo! This is the fellow I picked up!” he exclaimed.
Kean took it from him and slipped it into the pocket of his coat.