He could see Bowles mulling it over, vacillating, emotions flitting across his face like shadows. The good fortune of being rid of Rutledge at this impossibly sticky time. The realization that if Summers reappeared in England while Rutledge was away, he could send another man to cope with it. The knowledge that Rutledge was the butt of gossip and speculation which Bowles himself could do without—they were all there. He had even heard one rumor that Rutledge had had his revenge for Mickelson’s interference—embarrassing the Chief Superintendent.

“Yes, all right,” Bowles declared finally. “Take your leave and report back in four days. By that time, something should have turned up at the ports.”

He clearly expected Rutledge to be satisfied, for he picked up the paper he’d been reading when he was interrupted.

But Rutledge stood his ground, and said with something in his voice that made Bowles look up sharply, “About Inspector Mickelson’s theory that I was involved in the attack on him. I would suggest that it’s an aftereffect of that blow on the head. You know as well as I do that I was not involved. I couldn’t have been. I had no reason to be. Whatever my personal feelings may be about Inspector Mickelson.”

“A combination of misinformation and mistake,” Bowles agreed hastily.

Rutledge left it at that. He would never have an apology from this man, and while he’d been angry enough to beard him in his den and tell him publicly what he thought about him, he had more to lose than Bowles: his position at the Yard, which was still his lifeline to sanity.

He didn’t want to call on Meredith Channing. Last night was still too fresh in his mind. But he drove to her house anyway and knocked at the door.

And she had foreseen his difficulty. Her maid answered his knock, and he gave her the message for her mistress.

“Mrs. Channing would like to leave for Dover this afternoon, if that’s possible,” the maid replied. “Will that be convenient?”

The sooner it was over, the better, he thought, but said only, “I’ll be here at one o’clock.”

“Thank you, sir.” She closed the door. He stood there for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Hamish was giving him no peace, a reflection of the strain he was under. As a precaution when he went home to pack a small valise, he added some things to his clothing and shaving gear.

One o’clock came all too soon, and he was outside the Channing house five minutes early.

And she was ready. The door opened almost at once, and he went to meet her, taking her case and adding it to his own in the boot. She said, “Ian—” and then shook her head, stepping into the motorcar when he opened her door.

They drove through London in silence, and were soon on the Dover Road.