“To-morrow.”
“No,” I said slowly, “I can’t go to-morrow. I could go the next day, but not to-morrow.”
“Well, that’ll do,” he replied. “There’s a breakdown in the machinery and he can’t shift for at least four days. I’ve got that much anyhow. The day after to-morrow, then. I’ll send you a list of the trains.”
An hour or so later I called at Hapforth House and was shown into the presence of Lady Clevedon and Miss Kitty.
“Well,” said the old lady, a little tartly, “have you made any discoveries?”
“Yes,” I returned equably, “several. But I have run up against a brick wall and I’ve come to you to pull it down for me. I can’t get over it or under it or round it.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!” the old lady cried irascibly. “The question is—do you know who killed Philip Clevedon?”
“Well,” I said, “it depends. Perhaps I do, and possibly I am wrong.”
I glanced casually at Miss Kitty Clevedon, over whose pretty face some inward emotion had drawn a greyish pallor that extended even to her lips. It was quite certain that the last thing she wanted to hear was the name of the person who had killed Sir Philip Clevedon. But she was seated a little behind the old lady who noticed nothing.