“And besides, we know now that it wasn’t Brinkman, this time at any rate. Because he was away at the funeral. Whereas Pulteney shirked the funeral on an obviously false ground; didn’t go to the funeral and didn’t go fishing either. Assuming that the listener is the same all through, it looks bad for Pulteney.”
A knock at the door suddenly interrupted their interview. “May I come in?” said a gentle voice, and following it, flushed as with hot walking yet still beaming with its habitual benevolence, came the face of Mr. Pulteney.
“Ah, Mr. Bredon, they told me I would find you in here. I wanted a word with you. Could we go outside, or”——
“Nonsense, Mr. Pulteney,” said Angela firmly. “What Mr. Eames and I don’t know isn’t worth knowing. Come in and tell us all about it.”
“Well, you know, I’m afraid I’ve got to make a kind of confession. It’s a very humiliating confession for me to make, because I’m afraid, once again, I’ve been guilty of curiosity. I simply cannot mind my own business.”
“And what have you been up to now?” asked Angela.
“Why, when I said I was going out fishing this afternoon, I’m afraid I was guilty of a prevarication. Indeed, when I announced my intention of going to the funeral, I was beginning to weave the tangled web of those who first practise to deceive. You see, I didn’t want Brinkman to know.”
“To know what?”
“Well, that I was rather suspicious about his movements. You see, I’ve asked him several times when he means to leave Chilthorpe, and he always talks as if he was quite uncertain of his plans. He did so at breakfast, you remember. But this morning, when I went up to get a sponge I had left in the bathroom, I saw Brinkman packing.”
“Packing?”