III

Tom Hartigan said to Lily Marbury:

“Saw your old dugout this morning.”

“Who? Mr. Cust?”

“Cust it was. At Euston. Looking like a lost hen, as usual. I think the fellow’s half loony. Heneeds someone to look after him. First he dropped his paper and then he dropped his ticket. Ipicked that up—he hadn’t the faintest idea he’d lost it. Thanked me in an agitated sort of manner,but I don’t think he recognized me.”

“Oh, well,” said Lily. “He’s only seen you passing in the hall, and not very often at that.”

They danced once round the floor.

“You dance something beautiful,” said Tom.

“Go on,” said Lily and wriggled yet a little closer.

They danced round again.

“Did you say Euston or Paddington?” asked Lily abruptly. “Where you saw old Cust, I mean?”

“Euston.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. What do you think?”

“Funny. I thought you went to Cheltenham from Paddington.”

“So you do. But old Cust wasn’t going to Cheltenham. He was going to Doncaster.”

“Cheltenham.”

“Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn’t I?”

“Well, he told me he was going to Cheltenham. I’m sure he did.”

“Oh, you’ve got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right. Some people have all the luck.

I’ve got a bit on Firefly for the Leger and I’d love to see it run.”

“I shouldn’t think Mr. Cust went to race meetings, he doesn’t look the kind. Oh, Tom, I hope hewon’t get murdered. It’s Doncaster the A B C murder’s going to be.”

“Cust’ll be all right. His name doesn’t begin with a D.”

“He might have been murdered last time. He was down near Churston at Torquay when the lastmurder happened.”

“Was he? That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

He laughed.

“He wasn’t at Bexhill the time before, was he?”

Lily crinkled her brows.

“He was away…Yes, I remember he was away…because he forgot his bathing-dress. Motherwas mending it for him. And she said: ‘There — Mr. Cust went away yesterday without hisbathing-dress after all,’ and I said: ‘Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress—there’s been the mostawful murder,’ I said, ‘a girl strangled at Bexhill.’”

“Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. I say, Lily”—hisface crinkled up with amusement. “What price your old dugout being the murderer himself?”

“Poor Mr. Cust? He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” laughed Lily.

They danced on happily—in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together.

In their unconscious minds something stirred….