The detective had, of course, not recognised them and when he inquired what was the matter I merely explained that two drunken men had struck me on the head when passing, and that I had been alarmed.
“Well,” he grunted, “you needn’t have kicked up such a fuss. We thought you were being killed, at least!”
“The fact is,” I responded lamely, “I was frightened. I’m from the country, you see, and don’t appreciate the horseplay of your London hooligans.”
“Then you’d better not take evening walks along this place,” was the man Bullen’s response, while the ragged newsvendor picked up my battered silk hat, and handing it to me with a grim laugh, said—
“You’ll want a new ’un, sir. Them ’ooligans likes toppers. Some o’ Jimmy Boyle’s gang agin, I ’spect.”
To which the detective answered—
“I expect so. They’ll get into trouble one of these nights.”
And so the curious incident ended. I walked with them to the further end of Britten Street, taking leave of the unsuspecting detective in the King’s Road. He returned to his vigil, but I laughed within myself knowing how ingeniously the wily pair had slipped through his fingers.
On my drive back to the club I wondered whether I had acted wisely. At any rate I had made the acquaintance of the woman Lejeune, and had succeeded in showing her that I was prepared to aid her in exchange for the secret upon the knowledge of which Lolita’s future depended. Whether she would keep faith with me was quite another matter.
I deeply regretted that I had not been able to ascertain the name of the man who had been Lolita’s companion and had talked so earnestly with her in the wood. Without doubt he knew of the tragedy in the park—if, indeed, he were not the actual murderer. This latter suspicion became somehow impressed upon me. His face had gone ashen grey when I had revealed to them that a detective was awaiting them round the corner.