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He was recalled by the sound of Sir Charles’s voice.
“There’s one thing I didn’t understand in your letter, Egg. You spoke of Oliver Manders being in danger—of the police suspecting him. I can’t see that they attach the least suspicion to him.”
It seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite that Egg was very slightly discomposed. He even fancied that she blushed.
“Aha,” said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. “Let’s see how you get out of this, young lady.”
“It was silly of me,” said Egg. “I got confused. I thought that Oliver arriving as he did, with what might have been a trumped-up excuse—well, I thought the police were sure to suspect him.”
Sir Charles accepted the explanation easily enough.
“Yes,” he said. “I see.”
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke.
“Was it a trumped-up excuse?” he said.
Egg turned on him.
“What do you mean?”
“It was an odd sort of accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “I thought if it was a trumped-up excuse you might know.”
Egg shook her head.
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. But why should Oliver pretend to have an accident if he didn’t?”
“He might have had reasons,” said Sir Charles. “Quite natural ones.”
He was smiling at her. Egg blushed crimson.
“Oh, no,” she said. “No.”
Sir Charles sighed. It occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that his friend had interpreted that blush quite wrongly. Sir Charles seemed a sadder and older man when he spoke again.
“Well,” he said, “if our young friend is in no danger, where do I come in?”
Egg came forward quickly and caught him by the coat sleeve.
“You’re not going away again. You’re not going to give up? You’re going to find out the truth—the truth. I don’t believe anybody but you could find out the truth. You can. You will.”
She was tremendously in earnest. The waves of her vitality seemed to surge and eddy in the old-world air of the room.
“You believe in me?” said Sir Charles. He was moved.
“Yes, yes, yes. We’re going to get at the truth. You and I together.”
“And Satterthwaite.”
“Of course, and Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Egg without interest.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled covertly. Whether Egg wanted to include him or not, he had no intention of being left out. He was fond of mysteries, and he liked observing human nature, and he had a soft spot for lovers. All three tastes seemed likely to be gratified in this affair.
Sir Charles sat down. His voice changed. He was in command, directing a production.
“First of all we’ve got to clarify the situation. Do we, or do we not, believe that the same person killed Babbington and Bartholomew Strange?”
“Yes,” said Egg.
