‘Ah!’ cried Dr Ackrington triumphantly. ‘Aha!’ Simon looked coldly at him. ‘Questing,’ his uncle went on, ‘wished to create the impression that he fell in. If my theory is correct he will have made as great a change as possible in his appearance. Rough clothes. Workmen’s boots. He waits until he has changed his evening shoes for these boots and then stamps away the edge of the path.’ Dr Ackrington slapped the table and flung himself back in his chair. ‘I invite comment,’ he said grandly.

For a moment nobody spoke, and then, to Dikon’s profound astonishment, one after another, Gaunt, Smith, the Colonel and Simon, the last somewhat grudgingly, said that they had no comments to offer. It seemed to Dikon that the listeners round the table had relaxed. There was a feeling of expansion. Gaunt touched his forehead with his handkerchief and took out his cigarette case.

Obviously gratified, Ackrington turned to Falls. ‘You say nothing,’ he said.

‘But I am filled with admiration nevertheless,’ said Falls. ‘A most ingenious theory and lucidly presented. I congratulate you.’

‘What is it about the man?’ Dikon wondered. ‘He looks all right, rather particularly so. His voice is pleasant. One keeps thinking he’s going to be an honest-to-God sort of fellow and then he prims up his mouth and talks like an affected pedagogue.’ Out of patience with Falls, he turned to look at Barbara. He had tried not to look at her ever since she came in. Her pallor, her air of bewilderment and the painful attentiveness with which she listened to everybody and said nothing seemed to Dikon almost unbearably touching. She was watching him now, anxiously, asking him something. She answered his smile with a shadowy one of her own. There was an empty chair beside hers.

‘Dikon!’

Gaunt had shouted at him. He jumped and looked round guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Did you say something to me?’

‘Dr Ackrington has been waiting for your answer for some considerable time. He wants your opinion on his solution.’

‘I’m terribly sorry. My opinion?’ Dikon thrust his hands into his pockets and clenched them. They were all watching him. ‘Well, sir, I’m afraid I’ve been completely addled by the whole affair. I can’t pretend to have any constructive theory to offer.’

‘Then I take it you are prepared to accept mine?’ said Ackrington impatiently.

Why had he got the feeling that they were bending their wills upon him, that they sat there boring into his mind with theirs, trying to compel him to something?

‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ Gaunt demanded.

‘Come, come, Bell, if you’ve nothing to say we must conclude you’ve no objection.’

‘But I have,’ said Dikon, rousing himself. ‘I’ve every objection. I don’t believe in it at all.’

II