“Thanks, I think I will. Not that I’m tired, really. It makes so much difference on the railway if you are occupied.”
“You don’t mean to say you are one of those fortunate creatures who can work in railway trains?”
“No, not work. I played patience all the way.”
“Patience? Did I hear you say patience? Ah, but you only brought one pack, of course.”
“No, I always travel with two.”
“Two? And Mr. Pulteney has two! Angela, that settles it! This afternoon I shall have a game.”
“Miles, dear, not the game? You know you can’t play that and think of anything else at the same time. Mr. Eames, would you mind dropping your packs in the river? You see, it’s so bad for my husband; he sits down to an interminable game of patience, and forgets all about his work and everything.”
“You don’t understand, Angela; it clears the brain. When you’ve been puzzled over a thing, as I have been over this question of suicide, your brains get all stale and used up, and you must give them a fresh start. A game of patience will just do the trick. No, no milk, thanks. Would you tell Mrs. Davis”—this was to the barmaid—“that I shall be very busy all the latter part of this afternoon, and mustn’t be disturbed on any account? It’s all right, Angela; I’ll give you half an hour now to remonstrate with me, but it won’t be any use.”
It was not, as a matter of fact, till after the funeral party had left, and the coffin been removed, that Miles and Angela foregathered. They went to the old mill-house, feeling that it would be a safe place for confidences now that Brinkman was otherwise engaged. “Well,” said Angela, “I suppose you’re wanting some Watson work?”
“Badly. Look here, one of us, either Leyland or I, is beginning to feel the strain a bit. Everything that crops up makes him more and more determined to have Simmonds’s blood, and me more and more inclined to stick to my old solution.”