“What’s that, Tredwell?” said the latter, looking at them with faint distaste.
“Poached eggs, my lord.”
“I hate poached eggs,” said Lord Caterham peevishly. “They’re so insipid. I don’t like to look at them even. Take them away, will you, Tredwell?”
“Very good, my lord.”
Tredwell and the poached eggs withdrew as silently as they came.
“Thank God no one gets up early in this house,” remarked Lord Caterham devoutly. “We shall have to break this to them when they do, I suppose.”
He sighed.
“I wonder who murdered him,” said Bundle. “And why?”
“That’s not our business, thank goodness,” said Lord Caterham. “That’s for the police to find out. Not that Badgworthy will ever find out anything. On the whole I rather hope it was Nosystein.”
“Meaning——”