“If this thing’s true,” he said, “you can count on me. The fellow’s not fit to live. A defenceless chap like Hawes.”
A lame dog of any kind can always count on Haydock’s sympathy.
He was eagerly arranging details with Melchett when Miss Marple rose and I insisted on seeing her home.
“It is most kind of you, Mr. Clement,” said Miss Marple, as we walked down the deserted street. “Dear me, past twelve o’clock. I hope Raymond has gone to bed and not waited up.”
“He should have accompanied you,” I said.
“I didn’t let him know I was going,” said Miss Marple.
I smiled suddenly as I remembered Raymond West’s subtle psychological analysis of the crime.
“If your theory turns out to be the truth—which I for one do not doubt for a minute,” I said, “you will have a very good score over your nephew.”
Miss Marple smiled also—an indulgent smile.
“I remember a saying of my Great Aunt Fanny’s. I was sixteen at the time and thought it particularly foolish.”
“Yes?” I inquired.
“She used to say: ‘The young people think the old people are fools; but the old people know the young people are fools!’ ”