“The man in the brown suit,” she mused. “Who was he, I wonder? Anyway, he was identical with the ‘doctor’ in the tube. He would have had time to remove his makeup and follow the woman to Marlow. She and Carton were to have met there, they both had an order to view the same house, and if they took such elaborate precautions to make their meeting appear accidental they must have suspected they were being followed. All the same, Carton did not know that his shadower was the man in the brown suit. When he recognized him, the shock was so great that he lost his head completely and stepped back onto the line. That all seems pretty clear, don’t you think so, Anne?”

I did not reply.

“Yes, that’s how it was. He took the paper from the dead man, and in his hurry to get away he dropped it. Then he followed the woman to Marlow. What did he do when he left there, when he had killed her⁠—or, according to you, found her dead. Where did he go?”

Still I said nothing.

“I wonder, now,” said Suzanne musingly. “Is it possible that he induced Sir Eustace Pedler to bring him on board as his secretary? It would be a unique chance of getting safely out of England, and dodging the hue and cry. But how did he square Sir Eustace? It looks as though he had some hold over him.”

“Or over Pagett,” I suggested in spite of myself.

“You don’t seem to like Pagett, Anne. Sir Eustace says he’s a most capable and hardworking young man. And, really, he may be for all we know against him. Well, to continue my surmises. Rayburn is the ‘man in the brown suit.’ He had read the paper he dropped. Therefore, misled by the dot as you were, he attempts to reach cabin 17 at one o’clock on the 22nd, having previously tried to get possession of the cabin through Pagett. On the way there somebody knifes him⁠—”

“Who?” I interpolated.

“Chichester. Yes, it all fits in. Cable to Lord Nasby that you have found the man in the brown suit, and your fortune’s made, Anne!”

“There are several things you’ve overlooked.”

“What things? Rayburn’s got a scar, I know⁠—but a scar can be faked easily enough. He’s the right height and build. What’s the description of a head with which you pulverized them at Scotland Yard?”

I trembled. Suzanne was a well-educated, well-read woman, but I prayed that she might not be conversant with technical terms of anthropology.

“Dolichocephalic,” I said lightly.

Suzanne looked doubtful.

“Was that it?”

“Yes. Long-headed, you know. A head whose width is less than 75 percent of its length,” I explained fluently.

There was a pause. I was just beginning to breathe freely when Suzanne said suddenly: “What’s the opposite?”