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did so, in detail, each supplementing the other’s account and refreshing the other’s memory.
    ‘Odd as it seems, that’s the latest mention of him I’ve got so far. He drew off and went back towards his party?’
    ‘Not directly,’ said Charlotte. ‘I suppose we just took it that he would, and weren’t surprised that he made a pretence of being unconcerned and going his own way about it. What he actually did was to stroll away down-river, right along the perimeter. I watched him as far as the corner of the curator’s garden, and saw him turn in alongside the hedge. I didn’t pay any attention afterwards. I just took it for granted he was on his way back to the group.’
    ‘I’ve talked to his particular friends. None of them saw him again. He never rejoined his party.’
    ‘Have his parents reported him missing?’ asked Gus.
    ‘No, not yet. His father happens to be a close neighbour of mine in the village of Comerford, that’s all. Young Collins—he teaches Latin for his sins—reported to the Bodens when the coach got back to Comerbourne, not to complain of the kid, but so that they shouldn’t be worried about his non-arrival. They know their son, and are more or less resigned to his caprices, but they know his consistencies, too. He likes his comforts and he likes his food. When he failed to show up by half past eight they did begin to wonder. I happen to be three doors away, and dropping it in my lap is a discreet step short of making an official report. Easier to back out of, and sometimes produces the same result. This isn’t a case. And if it ever becomes one—God forbid!—it won’t be my case. But the odds are Gerry’s merely run into something more interesting than usual, worth being late for supper.’
    ‘A girl?’ suggested Gus dubiously.
    ‘It happens. Though up to now he’s been too much in love with himself,’ said the chief inspector frankly, ‘to show much interest in girls. He’s not a bad kid, really. Just the only one, too spoiled, and too clever.’ He rose, and restored his chair to its place at the neighbouring table. ‘Thanks, anyhow, for pin-pointing the actual place and time. No one seems to have caught a glimpse of him since.’
    ‘You don’t think,’ said Charlotte, suddenly uneasy, ‘that he could possibly have missed his footing and slipped into the river? It’s running so high, and so fast, even a good swimmer might not be able to get out if he once got caught in the current.’
    ‘No, I don’t. He
is
a good swimmer—quite good enough, and quite mature enough in that way, to respect flood water. And he wasn’t attended by his admirers at that stage, so he had no inducement to show off by taking risks. No, I feel confident he absented himself deliberately, for some reason of his own.’
    ‘Then he’ll reappear,’ she said, ‘in his own good time.’
    ‘In all probability he will. As soon as he begins to think pleasurably of his bed.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Rossignol, and goodnight. Goodnight, Mr Hambro.’
    He turned and left the room, threading his way between the deserted tables to vanish in the warm, wood-scented half-darkness of the hall. In a few moments they heard a car start up and drive away. Down-river, Charlotte thought. Perhaps he wasn’t as completely convinced as he made out that a lost boy, however bright and confident, could not have ended in the Comer. And perhaps he wasn’t going to wait until morning before launching a search.
    Gus Hambro was sitting quite still, his brows drawn together in a tight and abstracted frown, and the focus of his eyes fixed far beyond the panelling of the dining-room.
    ‘Of course he’ll be all right,’ said Charlotte, all the more firmly because she was not totally convinced.
    Gus said: ‘Of course!’ in a slightly startled voice, and visibly withdrew his vision and his thoughts from some distant preoccupation in which she had no part. He looked vaguely at her, and quickly and