Brett could only gape. He was reminded of the first crime he had ever seen, when, as a child, shopping with his mother in a crowded store, he had turned round suddenly and caught a man in the act of whipping a bale of gingham under his overcoat. Then, as now, he stared, his brain numbly doubting whether he had really seen or only imagined. He never knew. Then, as now, he was silent. The man had slipped unobtrusively away.

But why, in this case, was there such silence? That Majendie shouldn’t care was not surprising, but what about the man on the other seat? He was surely one of them. He certainly wasn’t another bound victim, for his hands lay limp on his knees. He and Wacey might have come to an understanding. Wacey’s departure had been too furtive to suggest that it was to schedule, that it was anything but the slinging advocated by him in the clearing. Then had he gone so furtively as to pass unnoticed?

Brett looked at the man on the pull-down seat. His face was turned towards the door by which Wacey had left. His stare passed blankly through the window. He sat, as he had done all the time, quite immobile.

Something in the face and posture struck a response from Brett’s memory. At the same time he was aware that what had so clearly shown him the face, and the hands on the knees a minute since, was a brighter light. There was a car following them, another about to pass in the opposite direction; and they were travelling faster. From the increase in traffic and speed, Brett gathered that they had turned into a major road. At that moment he heard a whisper from Majendie.

“Mr. Nightingale—do you hear me?”

“Yes,” said Brett.

“You understand what I say?”

“Of course.”

“Forgive me, dear fellow. You’ve said such odd things—I wondered if you were quite yourself.” Majendie rushed this out in one breath. “But—we can speak freely if we don’t raise our voices above this—you understand—”

Brett could half see Majendie, his head turned away from the pale man, trying to convey by grimaces that before such a one reticence was superfluous.

“What is it?” he asked.

“This is the main Dover road, you see, A2,” hissed Majendie. “Do you think—traffic seems reasonably heavy—could we make a bid—”

“At this speed? Tied?”

“But perhaps manage to attract attention? If we’re overtaken again—the window’s open too—”

“Where’s Stephanie?”

“Miss Cole? In the other car. It went ahead of us, but I can’t see it at the moment. You’re thinking it would be scandalous to leave her. But if we could get away to tell the police, have that car stopped—unless you know it couldn’t be done. Poor child, poor child!”

So she was of the main party, Brett thought, with no more than a passing gibe for his wasted anxiety. Naturally she went with the Kellett’s or Geoffrey side of the business. Yet by the very name Brett was reminded that without her help he would have known nothing of Geoffrey, the cellars, Majendie’s collection. She had mentioned the dressing case itself—