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language does play itself odd tricks.
    ‘But, ah – no!’ De Voisin made a further gesture conceivably indicating a politely dissimulated consciousness that his kinsman’s friend had addressed him without the formality of introduction. ‘I have my little car. But not here at the house, since I left it at the entrance to the drive. The walk through the grounds was too charming to miss.’
    Appleby accepted this in silence. The young man was much overdoing, he thought, the picturesque charms of Ashmore Chase, since the decidedly run-down character of its pleasure gardens and policies in general would surely be anybody’s predominant impression of it. But Gallic politeness, no doubt, had still to be allowed for.
    ‘But I did observe a motor-cyclist,’ de Voisin went on. ‘He came up the drive and out of the park just as I was entering it.’ The young man paused, as if aware of himself as being surprisingly informative. He continued with precision nevertheless. ‘That was at twenty to two, just as I began my promenade . But I have not been here so long as that would suggest, since I made my small picnic en route .’
    ‘I see. You were mistaken, by the way, in supposing this house to be empty as well as accessible. Mr Ashmore and I must have been at lunch when you entered.’
    Jules de Voisin received this communication only with a bow. It was, Appleby reflected, a perfectly justifiable snub. If Martyn Ashmore was indisposed to indicate overt displeasure at his French kinsman’s behaviour it certainly wasn’t for a casual guest to do so. Nevertheless Appleby was suddenly determined to have nothing whatever swept, so to speak, under the mat.
    ‘I congratulate you,’ he said, ‘on being so certain of just when you saw the motor-cycle. It may be a point of importance. There can be little doubt that its rider must be regarded as a dangerous criminal. In fact he attempted to murder Mr Ashmore not much more than an hour ago from this very spot.’
    Naturally enough, de Voisin received this with a shocked exclamation. He then turned to Martyn Ashmore and appeared to indicate by a raised eyebrow his continuing sense of the irregular character of this conversation.
    ‘Sir John Appleby,’ Ashmore said. ‘Another new acquaintance, my dear – um – Jules. But a neighbour, more or less. Sir John has held a very distinguished position. You may think of him as having been Préfet de Police in London. Appleby, my kinsman, Jules de Voisin.’
    Appleby was more impressed by this performance than de Voisin appeared to be. It indicated considerable reserves of clarity in his eccentric host. It even seemed to sanction Appleby’s taking to himself a certain professional standing in relation to the homicidal incident he had just referred to. But if de Voisin was surprised he failed to show it. Having, with a relapse into his native tongue, announced that he was enchanted to make Appleby’s acquaintance, he surveyed the small platform on which all three men stood with the decently enhanced interest proper to its having been revealed as the scene of recent outrage. With an equally becoming gravity he felicitated his kinsman on his fortunate escape from danger. He then again fell silent. It was a silence which conveyed that he was by no means dismissing without further concern the startling information he had been offered. Its implication seemed rather to be that further discussion of it ought to be a family affair, and not to take place in the presence of Sir John Appleby – Préfet de Police , or not.
    It was again, Appleby judged, fair enough. It wasn’t clear to him, all the same, that he ought now simply to take his leave – not even if it was to carry the whole story at once to Colonel Pride. For it was not credible, after all, that there wasn’t something to be discovered about this young Frenchman in some way relevant to the plain crime that had been attempted. That he should have turned up by sheer coincidence on a