And indeed, she found her husband in no accommodating mood. “I want a bus timetable,” he said, retrieving a three of spades from the wastepaper basket.
“Why not ring for one?” suggested Angela, with an assumption of hauteur.
“I’ve been wanting to for a long time, but I can’t get at that dashed bell without disturbing the cards. Do be a sport and ask for one.”
“All right. Chuck over the Bovril, though.” And she did contrive to secure a dog’s-eared sheet from downstairs, which he thumbed this way and that abstractedly, while she watched him from the doorway. “Good!” he announced at last. “Things begin to clear up a bit. Tell the third chauffeur to have the Rolls round this afternoon, because we’ve got to make a little expedition to Witney.”
“We’ve lots of blankets at home, you know.”
“Oh, go and feed Bovril to the patient. I’m busy.”
Bredon appeared at luncheon with symptoms of suppressed excitement which Angela recognized and welcomed. He was vivacious, and, in the presence of Mr. Farris, he talked about everything rather than the Burtell mystery. “Anything fresh this morning?” he asked, when he got Leyland alone.
“A little. Only a little, and dashed puzzling at that. You remember Nigel told us that before all this happened he had been on the point of going off to the Continent. Well, that suggested to me that he’d probably already got a passport, and it didn’t seem to me very safe to leave a passport in the keeping of such a slippery young customer. So I asked him about it, and he said he’d left it in his digs—told me exactly where I could find it. Apparently there were some few of his personal possessions that he’d left behind, to be picked up later. Well, I went over and searched, and there wasn’t a confounded trace of the passport.”
“You think he was just lying?”
“We could find out, of course, from the passport office. But I don’t think he was lying, because though I didn’t find the passport itself, I found the odd copies of his passport photographs, one of them authenticated by his College chaplain. It’s a mystery to me why the law always wants clergymen to do these things, because of all professions I think the parsons are the most careless about the way they give testimonials. However, there they were; and indeed, here they are—have a look at them if you like. I don’t call it a very good portrait, and it’s rather blurred at that; but these passport people will take anything.”
“Yes, it’s a dashed bad likeness, somehow. You can see the family chin all right, though. By the way, here’s another point—who took that photograph? Because you were hunting all over the place for a portrait of Nigel, and couldn’t get one; I think you said you circularized the Oxford and London photographers pretty thoroughly.”
“Oh, apparently it’s an amateur one. Actually it was done by Derek, before they started out on the river tour. At least, so Nigel says.”
“But it can’t have been immediately before.”
“No, it would be about a week before, when they were arranging the trip together. Hullo, what’s wrong with you?”
“Only that I think I’ve picked up an extra link. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have. Look here, Leyland, are you coming over to Witney this afternoon?”
“Not unless I’m wanted specially.”
“No, I don’t think you’d be much use. Hullo, here’s Angela with the car. Look here, I may have rather important things to tell you this evening, so try to be on hand about teatime.”
“Rather. Bring all your friends. We’re becoming quite a party here, aren’t we?”
“No, I shan’t bring anybody. But if I’m right—and I feel quite certain I’m right this time—I shall have news for you which will set you telegraphing all over the place.”
“Another pub-crawl?” suggested Angela, as the car turned the corner into the main road.
“Exactly. But there can’t be many pubs in Witney—decent ones, I mean.”
“Whose name do we ask for this time?”
“No name, particularly. Just to find out if anybody came there for the night on Sunday, the Sunday before last.”
Their search was rewarded at the first and most obvious hotel. For a wonder, the hotel register had been kept, and it was not surprising to find that only one guest had arrived on the Sunday. Angela, looking over her husband’s shoulder, read the words “L. Wallace, 41 Digby Road, Coventry.”
“Luke Wallace!” she cried, “why, that’s dear old Farris! Miles, this is bright of you. But why’s he gone and changed his address? He was in Cricklewood last time. Miles, I’m hanged if I see how you expected to find this.”
“Oh, give a man time! Is it possible you don’t see that I wasn’t expecting it? I don’t want Luke Wallace here one little bit. He spoils the whole show. Farris! What on earth was he doing here? And why on earth did he want a fresh address? I think I’m going mad.”
“So shall I, unless you tell me what it is you’re after. Do you know, I quite enjoy seeing you puzzled, when you yourself are deliberately keeping me on the rack like this.”
“The rack, the rack! Luke Wallace on the letter-rack! That’s it, that does it all. Now, go and ask that young creature in the cage what she can remember about Mr. L. Wallace.”
But neither the lady in the cage nor the hotel porter could remember much about Mr. Wallace. He had attracted attention by arriving on a Sunday, by arriving late at night, and by leaving early the following morning. He had no heavy luggage with him, but talked of having left some at Oxford. He had inquired about the trains to Oxford, and had taken the earliest
