“Any one else, Luttrell?”
There was still silence. Then Piggy said dryly:
“I take it that there is somebody else involved. I don’t wish to cross-examine you, but I must know one thing. Is it suspicion, moral certainty, or proof?”
“Moral certainty,” said Anthony Luttrell. He passed his tongue across his dry lips. Piggy did not look at him.
“Now, look here,” he said, “it seems to me that Luttrell Marches is about to be the centre of some unpleasant happenings. I think, I rather think, it would be advisable to induce any ladies who may be there to leave the place. Lady Heritage is there, is she not, and er, er, Miss...?”
“Miss Molloy.”
“Exactly. Miss—er, Molloy. Now I consider that these two ladies should leave at once. When I say at once I mean to-day. I should like you to go down—by car, of course, there won’t be any Sunday trains—and er, fetch them away, using such inducements and persuasions as you may think expedient. Only they must leave. You understand, they must leave to-day.”
Anthony rose stiffly.
“I’m afraid, sir,” he said, “that I must decline the responsibility. The reasons which made me leave Luttrell Marches make it impossible for me to return there.”
“I see,” said Piggy. He picked up a piece of indiarubber, and occupied himself for about a minute and a half in endeavouring to balance it upon the edge of a handsome brass inkstand with an inscription on it. When the indiarubber fell into the ink with a splash he fished it out, using a pen with a sharp nib as a gaff, dried it carefully on a new sheet of white blotting-paper, and turned again to Anthony.