“That would be it, I suppose.”
“But then, how did Davenant explain all the things that have been puzzling us all this time?”
“I don’t think he’s been interviewed by the Daily Mail yet. But if you mean how he explained the difficulty about the two trains, that’s very simple. It wasn’t done from a train at all.”
“Not from a train?”
“No. He was walking with Brotherhood along the railway line in the fog, and he lost his temper and pitched him over. At least, that’s the story they’re telling down at Binver.”
“Oh, I see. That being so, this for the hole.”
They went round again that afternoon. There was really nothing else to be done; but Reeves was in a pitiable state of suspense all the time, and the hours travelled slowly. The 3.47 put down its generous toll of passengers at Paston Oatvile, but no Marryatt among them. Two more trains came in, and still no Marryatt appeared: his place was empty at the dinner-table. Reeves was in terror that he might come back in the middle; in terror that he might not come back at all. At last, as they went out from dinner, they caught sight of his face, looking white and haggard, in the entrance hall. Reeves bounded upstairs, full of relief, while Gordon marked down his man.
“Hullo, Marryatt? Had dinner? Good; come and sit in the lounge for a bit. I’d been wanting to see you.”
There was only one way to open the conversation. “Have a small something in the whisky line,” he suggested.
“No, thanks. Knocked off.”