These negative indications conveyed absolutely nothing to Theydon, who for the second time in their brief acquaintance found himself in the ridiculous position of one explaining a fault rather than, as he imagined, arraigning a man under suspicion.

“So we had better dispense with ambiguities, Mr. Forbes,” he went on, speaking with a precision that sounded oddly in his own ears.  “It was you who called on Mrs. Lester on Monday night, you who posted the letter she wrote to Miss Beale at Iffley, Oxfordshire, you for whom the police are now searching.  I have contrived thus far to keep your secret, but the situation is passing out of my control.  I would help you if I could—­”

“Why?”

The monosyllable, sharp and insistent, was disconcerting as the unexpected crack of a whip, but Theydon answered valiantly: 

“Because of the monstrous absurdities with which Fate has plagued me during the past two days, I appeal now for outspokenness, so I set an example.  Had it not been for your daughter’s remarkably attractive appearance I should not, in all likelihood, have given a second glance at my neighbors on the steps of the theater.  But I cannot forget that I did see both her and you—­ indeed, Miss Forbes herself recalled the incident—­ and the close questioning of the Scotland Yard men who were here last night showed me the folly of imagining that I could deny all knowledge of you.  I recognize now that some impish contriving of circumstances forced this knowledge upon me.  The sudden downpour of rain, and the fact that I was delayed by a slight accident to my cab, conspired with the apparently simple chance which led me to overhear the conversation between Miss Forbes and yourself.  I tried hard to baffle the detectives—­”

“Again I ask ‘Why?’”

Theydon was rapidly being wound up to a pitch of excited resentment.

“Why?” he cried.  “Was I not your guest?  How could I come from a house where I had been admitted to a delightful intimacy and tell the representatives of the law that my host was the man they were looking for?”

During some seconds Forbes bent his eyes on the floor, seemingly in deep thought.

“Theydon,” he said at last, looking up in his direct way, “I am your senior by a good many years—­ am old enough, as the saying goes, to be your father.  I may venture, therefore, to give you a piece of sound advice.  Pack a kit-bag, catch the afternoon boat train for Boulogne, and go for a walking tour in Normandy and Brittany.  When I was your age and a junior in a bank I had to take my holidays in May; each year I tramped that corner of France.  I recommend it as a playground.  It will appeal to your literary instincts, and it has the immeasurable advantage just now of being practically as remote from London as the Sahara.”

It must not be forgotten that Theydon was a romancer, an idealist.  The “lounge suit” of the modern tailor hampers the play of such qualities no more than the beaten armor of the age of chivalry.