A Georgian tough, thought Campion, startled, and never had occasion to alter his opinion.
He had not seen the doctor at the disastrous party of the afternoon and rightly supposed that he had been one of the many who had come late only to leave almost immediately afterwards.
Sutane remembered him, so much was obvious. His face wore that indignant, contemptuous expression which is always more than half embarrassment.
Poyser, who saw trouble brewing, came forward ingratiatingly.
“It was a pure accident,” he volunteered, attempting to be matter-of-fact and succeeding in sounding casual.
“Oh!” The newcomer raised his head and stared at him. “Were you in the car?”
“No, I wasn’t. Mr. Sutane was alone. Mr. Campion and I have just come down from the house. We——”
“Quite. Where is the patient?
