“Well, you know, I lifted up one of the seats, and found there a collection of sandwiches and a large flask of whisky.”
“The devil you did! But they might have been for the journey down here. Did you taste the sandwiches to see if they were fresh?”
“I took that liberty. They seemed to me, I must say, a trifle on the stale side. But who was I to complain? I was, as it were, a guest. Meanwhile, let me point out to you the improbability of Mottram’s loading up his car with sandwiches for a twenty-mile drive.”
“That’s true. Were they properly cut? Professional work, I mean?”
“I suspected the hand of the artist. Mrs. Davis, no doubt. The whisky I did not feel at liberty to broach. But the idea suggested itself to me that these were the preparations of a man who is contemplating a considerable journey, and probably one which will not allow him time to take his meals at a public-house.”
“And why a secret departure?”
“Why, somebody had induced a coat of black paint over what I take to be the number-plate of the car. I am a mere novice in such matters, but is that usual?”
“It is not frequently done. And was the paint still wet?”
“That is a curious point. The paint was dry. I supposed then, that Brinkman’s preparations for departure were not made yesterday or the day before.”
“It’s awfully kind of you to take all this trouble, and to come and tell us.”