be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old Hall for the weekend.”
“What?”
“Yes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked her—or she suggested it to Mrs. Protheroe—I don’t quite know which way about it was. To do some secretarial work for her—there are so many letters to cope with. It turned out rather fortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to do. What an excitement this barrow has been.”
“Stone?” said Raymond. “Is that the archaeologist fellow?”
“Yes, he is excavating a barrow. On the Protheroe property.”
“He’s a good man,” said Raymond. “Wonderfully keen on his job. I met him at a dinner not long ago and we had a most interesting talk. I must look him up.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “he’s just gone to London for the weekend. Why, you actually ran into him at the station this afternoon.”
“I ran into you. You had a little fat man with you—with glasses on.”
“Yes— Dr. Stone.”
“But, my dear fellow—that wasn’t Stone.”
“Not Stone?”
“Not the archaeologist. I know him quite well. The man wasn’t Stone—not the faintest resemblance.”
We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.
“Extraordinary,” I said.