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concealment.’
    Appleby nodded. ‘I think that’s true. I’ve even wondered whether he carried it into other aspects of his life.’
    ‘Um.’ Rood made his ejaculation sound extremely discreet. ‘At least I think we may say this. It was childish, perhaps. But endearing.’ He accompanied these words with a return to his rockiest manner, as if to make it quite apparent that endearment existed for him only as an abstraction. ‘The question is, did it all lead to his death.’
    ‘Well, that appears to be your question. But I can’t say, Mr Rood, that you’ve made out so much of a case, so far. If, that is to say, making out a case is what you’re about.’
    Rood looked offended again; he was certainly touchy. ‘No doubt it sounds nebulous,’ he said stiffly. ‘But at least I believe that Packford acquired something of great interest and importance from this person in Verona’ – he gave his mirthless laugh – ‘whether noble or otherwise.’
    ‘And you think this occurred quite recently?’
    ‘I conclude, Sir John, that it occurred probably on the very night of your happening to visit him in July. He didn’t mention anybody of the sort, whether by name or otherwise?’
    ‘I’m certain he didn’t.’ Appleby was becoming rather impatient of Rood’s mystery-mongering. ‘Apart from his housekeeper and gardener – and, yes, my own wife – we didn’t talk about any living persons at all.’
    ‘But would you say that Packford was in any state of expectation?’
    Appleby took a moment to consider this. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I did get some rather indefinite impression of that sort.’
    ‘Exactly!’ Rood was once more cheerful. ‘If you ask me, Packford was then in the hourly expectation of doing a highly secret and confidential deal with this fellow from Verona. And he must actually have succeeded in doing so by the following day. The manner of his referring to you as having just missed a celebration admits, to my mind, of no other explanation.’
    Appleby was silent for a moment. It had certainly been true that the thought of Verona had held some special significance for Packford on that not-far-distant July evening. So far, in fact, Rood’s speculations were not unpersuasive. But they seemed to have only the haziest connection with the suspicion which he had propounded. ‘And it’s your idea,’ Appleby asked, ‘that Packford, having made this important acquisition in Italy, brought it back to this country, and was then robbed of it by someone who killed him in the process?’
    But at this moment the cab stopped. ‘Ah,’ Rood said. ‘My destination.’ He peered at the taximeter. ‘I shall give the man four shillings. If, that is to say, you judge such an arrangement to be equitable.’ And he made to open the door beside him.
    Appleby was surprised. Rood, who had seemed so determined to press upon him an unsolicited and bizarre speculation, was frankly bolting. Perhaps he had remembered that Napoleon made some rapid retreats. Or perhaps, on second thoughts, his resolution had failed him. And now he was already out on the pavement. But he hesitated. ‘I ought to have arranged my thoughts,’ he said. ‘It is, after all, very unfamiliar ground. Perhaps, should I consider it justifiable to do so, I may communicate with you?’
    ‘Certainly.’ Appleby was definite but unenthusiastic. ‘Write or ring up. There will be no difficulty in getting through to me.’
    Rood nodded, and closed the door. But he was still hesitating, and a moment later he opened it again. ‘Four-and-six,’ he said. ‘I decided to give four-and-six. I had omitted to consider the tip. Good afternoon.’
    Rood banged the taxi door to again, turned, and hurried away. He had neglected to put up his umbrella. And Appleby’s inward ear heard the rain once more plonking on his silk hat, as it had plonked on the coffin of Lewis Packford.

 
     
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    Whether or not Mr Rood thought fit to come forward with more