I shrugged my shoulders. "It may be true," I said. "Tommy seems to think so anyhow. If it is, things are a bit simpler than I imagined—that's all."
"And if it isn't?" said Joyce.
"Ah!" said I, "if it isn't—"
I left the sentence unfinished, and helped myself to a second bit of bread and butter.
There was a short silence.
"Tell me about George, Joyce," I went on. "What are these particular dark doings that Tommy's hinting about?"
Joyce leaned forward with her chin on her hands, her blue eyes fixed on mine.
"Neil," she said slowly, "I've found out something at last—something I thought I was never going to. I know who the man was in Marks's rooms on the day that he was murdered."
I was so surprised that I gulped down a mouthful of nearly boiling tea.
"I wish you'd break these things more gently, Joyce," I said. "Who was it?"