And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been put through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that I knew only too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it was too late. Pagett was on the warpath.
He next proceeded to bore me with a long pointless story about the Kilmorden . It was about a roll of films and a wager. The roll of films being thrown through a porthole in the middle of the night by some steward who ought to have known better. I hate horseplay. I told Pagett so, and he began to tell me the story all over again. He tells a story extremely badly, anyway. It was a long time before I could make head or tail of this one.
I did not see him again until lunchtime. Then he came in brimming over with excitement, like a bloodhound on the scent. I never have cared for bloodhounds. The upshot of it all was that he had seen Rayburn.
“What?” I cried, startled.
Yes, he had caught sight of someone whom he was sure was Rayburn crossing the street. Pagett had followed him.
“And who do you think I saw him stop and speak to? Miss Pettigrew!”
“What?”
“Yes, Sir Eustace. And that’s not all. I’ve been making inquiries about her—”
“Wait a bit. What happened to Rayburn?”
“He and Miss Pettigrew went into that corner curio shop—”
I uttered an involuntary exclamation. Pagett stopped inquiringly.
“Nothing,” I said. “Go on.”