guess. I want to know what you were doing at Marlow on the 8th of January last?”
He started violently.
“Really, Miss Beddingfeld—I—indeed—”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“I—for reasons of my own I was in the neighbourhood, yes.”
“Won’t you tell me what those reasons were?”
“Sir Eustace has not already told you?”
“Sir Eustace? Does he know?”
“I am almost sure that he does. I hoped he had not recognized me, but from the hints he has let drop, and his remarks, I fear it is only too certain. In any case, I meant to make a clean breast of the matter and offer him my resignation. He is a peculiar man, Miss Beddingfeld, with an abnormal sense of humour. It seems to amuse him to keep me on tenterhooks. All the time, I dare say, he was perfectly well aware of the true facts. Possibly he has known them for years.”
I hoped that sooner or later I should be able to understand what Pagett was talking about. He went on fluently:
“It is difficult for a man of Sir Eustace’s standing to put himself in my position. I know that I was in the wrong, but it seemed a harmless deception. I would have thought it better taste on his part to have tackled me outright—instead of indulging in covert jokes at my expense.”
A whistle blew, and the people began to surge back into the train.
“Yes, Mr. Pagett,” I broke in, “I’m sure I quite agree with all you’re saying about Sir Eustace. But why did you go to Marlow? ”