“Well, I must really be going.” Dr. Stone made ineffectual attempts to control the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to his rescue. He protested.
“Don’t trouble—don’t trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless there will be somebody downstairs.”
But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspect that they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was getting on, so we set out together to the station, Dr. Stone carrying the suitcase, and I holding the rug and umbrella.
Dr. Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurried along.
“Really too good of you—didn’t mean—to trouble you. … Hope we shan’t miss—the train—Gladys is a good girl—really a wonderful girl—a very sweet nature—not too happy at home, I’m afraid—absolutely—the heart of a child—heart of a child. I do assure you, in spite of—difference in our ages—find a lot in common. …”
I felt that several well-known parallels would have occurred to Miss Marple, had she been there.
We saw Lawrence Redding’s cottage just as we turned off to the station. It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observed two young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and a couple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.
“Nice fellow, young Redding,” I remarked, to see what my companion would say.
He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say anything, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.
“Dangerous,” he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.