“Don’t mention it. I knew he was not the murderer.”
Allery looked at him.
“You have done a very clever thing,” he said, “by accident. Oh, I have been keeping my eyes open. If you had used this against Sanders you would have made all Mabel’s sympathy turn to him, and against you. It was like that with her father. She would have turned on you with loathing. As it is she is struck with your generous conduct towards Sanders, and angry with him for his treatment of you.”
“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Collins, “You are entirely wrong about—what shall we say—the situation.”
Allery gave a keen glance at him. “Humph,” he said, “I wonder.”
“The car is waiting, sir,” said John.
Collins took his leave, and was driven to Wilton-on-Sea. At the station he dismissed the chauffeur with a liberal tip, and watched him drive off. He then went to the parcels office and despatched his bag to his flat in London. Having done this he set out for a long walk, with nothing but a stout stick, and a rucksack with a few necessaries for the night. He had a long tour in front of him.
A steady rain was falling through the thick night, but the wind had dropped. The Vale was wrapped in shadow, not a light was showing. In the shrubbery Collins watched, getting what shelter he could. Unless all his calculations were at fault, here was the crisis of the situation. He was in front of the main door, and here it was that something would take place.
The time passed slowly, and he was thankful for the flask he had brought. Away in the distance a clock was striking. It was only nine o’clock.