"Yes," said Esdaile. And I fancied I heard him grunt, "Thank God!"
"Who's the other chap?" Hubbard asked as we walked along the passage.
"Fellow called Maxwell. Never heard of him. Did you?"
"No."
"Well, come in. It's the devil, isn't it?"
I suppose it is the devil when one of your particular friends comes down like this on your roof; but it struck me even then that it would have been still more devilish if he had been killed in doing so. Yet not only had their friend Chummy not been killed, but, according to Rooke's account earlier in the day, he was in a fair way for recovery. Hence I didn't quite see the reason for Esdaile's utter dejection. I should have understood it better had their friend been, not Smith, but the dead man Maxwell.
You see, I had totally forgotten one pretty little incident of that morning's breakfast. Perhaps you have forgotten it too. Remember, then, that Philip had pared an apple for Joan Merrow, had told her to see what initial the paring made on the floor, and had shaped his own guess with his lips—"C for Ch"—as he had hidden his bit of paper under his napkin.
Philip pushed up chairs for us and pottered about in search of whisky and glasses. Then, having set out a tray, he dropped heavily into a chair. For a time none of us spoke, and then I asked if Rooke was out.
"Yes. He's taken Audrey Cunningham home," Philip replied with marked brevity, and the silence fell on us again.