“My dear sir, you ask me a question. I answer it in good faith, and you disbelieve me.”
“No, no, not at all,” Pepster said blandly. “I accept your word implicitly. It was not the object and inspiration of the—er—the stroll that interested me.”
“No? You were not wondering whether I was coming from or going to White Towers? I am glad of that,” I returned with apparently great satisfaction. “In point of fact the stroll was a mere whim on my part, induced mainly, I may say, by the hope that it would assist me to a night’s sound sleep. I had been writing. One reason why I maintain my cabbage-like existence in a God-forgotten corner of the country like this is that I may write a book. But writing renders the brain a little over-active and—”
I broke off there and waited for the other to continue.
“What I really wanted to know,” Pepster went on, “was whether you saw or met anybody during your stroll.”
“I saw nobody and met nobody,” I responded equably.
“Somebody passed a few minutes previously,” Pepster continued. “Gamley here heard them talking, a man and a woman. But he could not distinguish them. He thought no more of it at the time, of course. Nothing was known of the murder then. He recognised you only because you struck a match to light your cigarette. But you were alone.”
He nodded to Sergeant Gamley and picked up his hat.
“Would it be impertinent,” I asked, “to inquire whether you have any clue, any idea, any theory—”
“Oh, I never theorise,” Pepster replied with bland serenity. “It is only story-book detectives who theorise. Theories are too much of a luxury for professionals. Facts are my stock-in-trade. I do not travel outside those.”