Their guest was by this time a little more composed, and a scrappy conversation upon various subjects of no interest at all was determinedly maintained. Nevertheless it was with considerable relief that Roger hailed the arrival of Inspector Moresby ten minutes later. He did not wish to see young Woodthorpe, to whom he had taken a liking, being bundled off to prison, but the situation really was a very difficult one.
Woodthorpe jumped to his feet immediately the door opened. “Inspector,” he said, with a return to his former abrupt manner, “I’ve been waiting to see you. I want to give myself up for the murders of Mrs. Vane and Meadows.”
The inspector gazed at him coolly for a moment. Then he closed the door behind him. “Oh, you do, do you?” he said without emotion. “So it was you who did it after all, was it, Mr. Woodthorpe?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well,” said the inspector tolerantly, “boys will be boys, I suppose. What’s for supper, eh, Mr. Sheringham?”
“C-cold veal and salad,” stammered Roger, somewhat taken aback. He had never seen an experienced policeman arresting a murderer before, but this certainly did not coincide with his ideas of how it should be done.
“Well, let’s hope the salad’s better than it was last night,” observed the inspector with some severity, and took his seat at the table.
Roger was not the only person to whom things did not seem to be going right. “Well, aren’t you going to arrest me, Inspector?” asked Woodthorpe in bewilderment.
“All in good time, sir, all in good time,” replied the inspector, busying himself with the veal. “Business first and pleasure afterward, perhaps, but food before either of them.”
“And drink before that,” murmured Roger, who was beginning to recover himself. Roger thought he saw a gleam of light in the darkness.