“You actually think it might conceivably be true?”
She shrugged her well-gowned shoulders.
“I never could stand Malcolm Cromarty—a conceited little jackanapes. He hasn’t a penny and he was head over ears in debt.”
It was his turn to start.
“Was he?”
“Oh, rather! Didn’t you know? Owed money everywhere.”
“But such a crime as that!”
“A man with ties and hair like his is capable of anything. You know quite well yourself he is a rotter.”
“Anyhow you can’t believe Cicely Farmond had anything to do with it?”
Again she shrugged her shoulders.
“My dear Ned, I’m not a detective. A pretty face is no proof a woman is a saint. I told you before that there was generally something in the blood in those cases.”
As he stared at her, it seemed as though her words had indeed rushed back to his memory, and that they hit him hard.
“People don’t say that, do they?” he asked in a low voice.
“Really, Ned, I don’t know everything people say: but they are not likely to overlook much in such a case.”
He stood for a moment in silence.
“She—I mean they’ve both got to be cleared!” he said, and strode out of the room.
XIX
The Empty Compartment
It was on this same evening that Superintendent Sutherland was almost rewarded for his vigilance by having something distinctly suspicious to report. As it happened, it proved a disappointing incident, but it gave the superintendent something to think about.
He was going a few stations down the line to investigate a rumour of a suspicious person seen in that neighbourhood. It was a vague and improbable rumour and the superintendent was setting out merely as a matter of form, and to demonstrate his vigilance and almost abnormal sense of duty. Darkness had already fallen for an hour or two when he strode with dignified gait down the platform, exchanging a greeting with an acquaintance or two, till he came to the front carriage of the train. He threw open the door of the rear compartment, saw that it was empty, and was just going to enter when glancing over his shoulder he perceived his own cousin Mr. MacAlister upon the platform. Closing the door, he stepped down again and greeted him.
Mr. MacAlister hailed him with even more than usual friendliness, and after a few polite preliminaries drew him insidiously towards the far side of the platform. An intelligent, inveterate and persevering curiosity was Mr. MacAlister’s dominating characteristic, and as soon as he had got his distinguished kinsman out of earshot of the herd, he inquired in a hushed voice:
“And what’s doing aboot the murder noo, George?”
The superintendent pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Aye, man, yon’s a proper puzzle,” said he.
“But you’ll have gotten a guid idea whae’s din it by noo, George?” said Mr. MacAlister persuasively.
“Weel,” admitted the superintendent, “we maybe have our notions, but there’s no evidence yet, Robbie; that’s the fair truth. As the fiscal says, there’s no evidence.”
“I’d like fine to hae a crack wi’ you aboot it, George,” sighed Mr. MacAlister. “I may tell you I’ve notions of ma own; no bad notions either.”
“Well,” said the superintendent, moving off, “I’d have enjoyed a crack myself if it wasna that I’ve got to be off by this train—”
“Man!” cried his kinsman, “I’m for off by her mysel’! Come on, we’ll hae our crack yet.”
The tickets had already been taken and the doors were closed as the two recrossed the platform.
“This carriage is empty,” said the superintendent, and threw open the door of the same compartment he had almost entered before.
But it was not empty now. In one of the further corners sat a man wrapped in a dark coloured ulster. A black felt hat was drawn down over his eyes, and his muffled face was resting on his hand. So much the superintendent saw in the brief moment during which he stood at the open door, and it struck him at once that the man must be suffering from toothache. And then his cousin caught him by the arm and drew him back.
“Here, man, the carriage next door is empty!” cried he, and the superintendent closed the door and followed him.
It was scarcely more than a minute later when the whistle blew and they were off, and Mr. MacAlister took out his pipe and prepared himself to receive official confidences. But the miles went by, and though he plied his questions incessantly and skilfully, no confidences were forthcoming. The superintendent, in fact, had something else to think about. All at once he asked abruptly:
“Robbie, did ye see yon man next door sitting with his face in his hands?”
“Aye,” said Mr. MacAlister, “I noticed the man.”
“Did ye ken who he was?”
“No,” said Mr. MacAlister, “I did not.”
“Had ye seen him on the platform?”
“No,” said Mr. MacAlister, “I had not.”
“I didna see him myself,” said the superintendent musingly. “It seems funny-like a man dressed like yon and with his face wrapped up too—and a man forbye that’s a stranger to us both, coming along the platform and getting into that carriage, and me not noticing him. I’m not used not to notice people, Robbie.”
“It’s your business, George,” said Mr. MacAlister, and then as he gazed at his cousin’s thoughtful face, his own grew suddenly animated.
“You’re not thinking he’s to dae wi’ the murder, are you!” he cried.
“I’m not sure what to think till I’ve had another look into yon carriage,” said the superintendent cautiously.
“We’re slowing doon the noo!” cried Mr. MacAlister, “God, George, I’ll come and hae a look wi’ you!”
The train was hardly in the platform before the superintendent was out, with Mr. MacAlister after him, and the door of the next compartment was open almost as soon as the train was at rest. Never had the superintendent been more vigilant; and never had his honest face looked blanker.
“God! It’s empty!” he murmured.
“God save us!” murmured Mr. MacAlister, and then he was visited by an inspiration which struck his relative afterwards as
