"It's certainly funny rather," he said quietly. "You must have got a good deal of quiet fun out of compiling that column."
"Oh," said Peter. "But I didn't, you know."
"I gather you helped—supplied much of the information. That story of the old man I brutally slew and then callously left uncared for on the road—you seem to have coloured that rather highly in passing it on.... I suppose it was stupid of me to fancy that you weren't intending to make that public property. Not that I particularly mind: there was nothing to be ashamed of in that business; but it somehow never happened to occur to me that you were relating it."
"I didn't," said Peter. "I have never told anyone."
Urquhart said nothing; his silence was expressive.
Peter stammered into speech incoherently.
"At least—at least—yes, I believe I did tell Peggy the story, months ago, in Venice—but I didn't say it was you. I merely said, if someone had done that ... what would she think? I wanted to know if she thought we ought to have found the old man's people and told them."
"I see," said Urquhart. "And did she?"
"No. She thought it was all right." Peter had known beforehand that Peggy would think it was all right; that was why he had asked her, to be reassured, to have the vague trouble in his mind quieted.
And she, apparently, had seen through his futile pretence, had known it was Urquhart he spoke of, needed reassuring about (Peter didn't realise that even less shrewd observers than Peggy might easily know when it was Urquhart he spoke of) and had gone and told Hilary. And Hilary, in his need, had twisted it into this disgusting story, and had typed it and brought it down to Astleys to-night, with other twisted stories.