Lady Kean’s eyes stole to her husband’s face. To her, his tact and consideration had always been unfailing, but it had never been his way to show much kindness to others and she had often been half amused, half exasperated, by the cold courtesy with which he had treated even her closest friends. She felt very grateful to him now for his gentleness to Cynthia.
“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “it wasn’t all eyewash. She can be quite useful and it will keep her out of mischief. She’s got a head on her shoulders and plenty of grit. Leslie’s a lucky man.”
“I only hope his luck won’t fail him now,” put in his wife.
“Don’t you worry, my dear,” Kean assured her. “We’ll pull him through, all right. You needn’t lose any sleep over him!”
His hand was on hers and Fayre, after a glance at them, slipped out of the room and settled himself by the fire in his bedroom. For one thing, he wanted to think; for another, he possessed tact enough to leave these two to their own devices till the time came for Kean to catch the London train.
With a smile at his own childishness, he fell back on the time-honoured method of all detectives of fiction and set to work with a pencil and paper to get his thoughts in order.
According to Gregg, Mrs. Draycott had been shot some two hours before Leslie discovered her body in the sitting-room at the farm. Going on this assumption Fayre headed his paper:
“March 23rd. Between six and seven, Mrs. Draycott shot.”
When he had finished, half an hour later, his notes ran as follows:
“John Leslie. According to his own account at six o’clock was walking across the fields in the direction of Besley. Motive: apparently none. Have only his own explanation of his movements and of the empty chamber in his revolver.”