“Well, I should think he’ll allow you to have some food at any rate, whatever he does with you afterward. I’ll tell the girl when she comes up. In the meantime, if you don’t care for talking here’s the morning paper.”
Colin Woodthorpe smiled again. “Thanks,” he said and began to read it diligently, upside-down.
“Well, I suppose I’d better go along and wash,” Roger observed very airily. “Coming, Anthony?”
They escaped from the room.
“Was this your solution, Roger?” Anthony asked, when they had gained the privacy of one of their four bedrooms.
“Don’t rub it in!” Roger groaned. “And I’d got it all worked out so beautifully. Dash it, I can’t believe I was wrong! I wonder if the chap can be making a mistake?”
“Fellow ought to know whether he’s murdered somebody or not, surely,” Anthony stated judicially.
“Yes, I suppose he ought. It would be a difficult thing to overlook, wouldn’t it? Well, all I can say is, dash the chap! This is the second time I’ve solved this mystery wrong.—Anthony, I don’t want to go back to that room a bit. Let’s sit down and smoke and talk about Ibsen.”
“I’ll go down and tell them about that extra place first,” said Anthony, and extricated himself with neatness and despatch.
Twenty minutes later the maid knocked on the door and informed them that supper was ready. With reluctance they returned to the sitting-room.