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Packford’s unexpected death had touched off some quirk in Rood’s mind, and set him imagining things.
    But all this didn’t mean that the suggestion could be politely ignored. Rood couldn’t have been Packford’s solicitor if he were not a responsible lawyer of good standing; nursing this suspicion, he had tumbled quite by accident into the company of Appleby, who was an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It didn’t follow that it was at all incumbent upon Appleby to get out a magnifying glass and begin hunting for bloodstains and footprints. Indeed, he wasn’t entitled to. But he must attend to whatever information he was about to receive, and take appropriate action should it be necessary. ‘I am greatly concerned,’ he said, ‘that you should have arrived at such a suspicion. But you have no doubt communicated it to the police-force concerned?’
    ‘I certainly communicated one opinion I had formed to the officer who investigated the matter. Unfortunately, it has been virtually ignored. The police – and, I understand, the coroner – are entirely easy in their minds. The inquest has been adjourned. But I have no doubt that it will conclude in mere formality. Well, perhaps it is better so.’ Mr Rood delivered himself of this final judgement with gloomy dignity.
    ‘It is certainly nothing of the kind, if there is the slightest ground for any doubt in the matter.’ Appleby spoke with some severity. ‘Are you in a position to point to any motive which may have prompted to Packford’s murder?’
    ‘Robbery, Sir John.’
    Appleby shook his head. ‘I’m at some disadvantage, you know, because I am simply without the facts of the case. But in this country there are singularly few murders which are conceived of as deliberately incident to a robbery. Thieves and burglars commonly kill only when surprised, and then the circumstances are likely to leave no doubt about the matter.’
    ‘It may well be that I am entirely mistaken.’ Judging his umbrella now tolerably dry, Rood had begun to roll it with meticulous care. ‘But the robbery of Packford, if it took place, was of a singular kind. I think you said you visited him in Italy?’
    The taxi-cab bumped to a stop. It was in a traffic jam. Appleby glanced curiously at his companion. Rood had finished fiddling with his umbrella and was sitting with it upright between his knees. If he was a crank, his appearance was far from suggesting the fact. Looked at in a sufficiently wide context, he would no doubt appear dim. Viewed simply in the light of his profession, he suggested a dry narrow rigour which would make him entirely adequate at his job. ‘Yes,’ Appleby said, ‘I did call on Packford in Italy during the summer. It was no more than a surprise visit. I had dinner with him, and then drove on to Verona.’
    ‘I think that would have been on the 8th of July?’
    The jerk with which Appleby sat up wasn’t altogether a matter of the sudden renewed forward movement of the taxi. ‘That was certainly the date,’ he said. ‘But I’d hardly have thought that it was an occasion to go down in history.’
    ‘Ah.’ There was a new tone in Rood’s voice. It could easily be identified as satisfaction. ‘There would be nothing remarkable in my knowing, without your having told me, about your call on Packford at Garda. But it’s queer that I should know the date – eh?’ He gave a conceited chuckle.
    ‘There’s nothing actually strange about it, I suppose. But it is mildy surprising. It’s something that Packford might have mentioned to you, or to anyone, on his return to England. But one would hardly expect him to mention the precise date of so unimportant an event, or that it should then stick in your head. I had to make an effort myself to check that you’d got it right.’
    ‘Quite so.’ Rood was now really gratified. ‘As a matter of fact, I learnt about it at the time. Packford and I were in correspondence during the summer –