‘No. You!’
‘A practical joke,’ said Logan. ‘Somebody pulling your leg, as people say, a most idiotic way of speaking. What sort of client was he, or she? We’ll be even with them.’
‘The client’s card is here,’ said Merton, and he handed to Logan that of the Marquis of Restalrig.
‘You never saw him before; are you sure it was the man?’ asked Logan, staggered in his scepticism.
‘A very good imitation. Dressed like a farmer at a funeral. Talked like all the kailyards. Snuffed, and asked for brandy, and went and came, walking, in this weather.’
‘By Jove, it is my venerated cousin. And he had heard about me and Miss ---’
‘He was quite well informed.’
Logan looked very grave. He rose and stared out of the window into the mist. Then he came back, and stood beside Merton’s chair. He spoke in a low voice:
‘This can only mean one thing.’
‘Only that one thing,’ said Merton, dropping his own voice.