Fanshawe winced. “That is rather crude, Inspector,” he murmured. “Yes, you are right, of course. I have no home now. I mean my sister’s flat.”

“In Daylesford Court Mansions?”

“Yes. I know what you are going to say next. Within a couple of hundred yards of Daylesford Gardens. Odd, isn’t it?” He smiled as though in pure enjoyment at the coincidence.

“And then?”

“Oh, then I packed my bag and went abroad.”

“You went abroad that same day?”

“Certainly. That night, rather. By the Newhaven boat to Paris. My daughter is living there.”

Mallett took this piece of information in complete calm, but Frant, unable to contain himself, let his breath escape in a prolonged whistle. Fanshawe turned his head in his direction and stared at him for a moment with raised eyebrows, but said nothing.

The inspector recalled his attention by asking quietly: “What class did you travel?”

“I bought a third-class return ticket in the City before I went to see—the person we have been discussing,” was the answer. “Disgustingly uncomfortable, but beggars can’t be choosers!”

“Did you notice anybody in particular travelling first-class?”

Fanshawe sat up abruptly. “Now look here,” he said in a hard tone quite unlike his usual voice, “I have already told you that I am not interested in the ends of justice, if those ends are to avenge the killing of—Ballantine.” He spat out the name with concentrated fury. “If anything I could say would help you to find the gentleman who called himself Colin James, I should not say it. If I could have shaken him by the hand for what he did, I should have done so.”

It was Mallett’s turn to be calm. “Very well,” he said smoothly. “If that is your attitude, I shall not press you. You can tell me where you bought your ticket, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, Rawson’s in Cornhill. They know me there.”

“Thank you. And while you were in Paris, I take it you stayed with your daughter?”

“Yes. She lives out at Passy.” He gave the address.

“You went there at once on arriving in Paris?”

“No, of course I didn’t. You get there at such an unearthly hour you couldn’t possibly go to anyone’s place, particularly if you weren’t expected. I spent what was left of the night at a hotel close to the station—a vile place, the best I could afford. I’ve forgotten the name.”

“Not the Hotel Du Plessis, by any chance?”

“Certainly not—I’ve never heard of the place.”

Mallett paused for a full half-minute. Then he said: “And that is all you mean to tell us, Mr. Fanshawe?”

“That is all I have to tell you, Inspector Mallett.”

“Good afternoon, then.”

“Good afternoon. And will the detectives be withdrawn?”

“I can make no promises.”