Woodthorpe dropped back into his seat. “I—I don’t understand,” he muttered.
“You’ve got no salad, sir,” said the inspector in tones of some concern. “Help yourself and then pass the bowl across to me.—Well, well! So it’s you who’s been giving us all this trouble, is it?”
“If you like to put it that way,” replied Woodthorpe stiffly. Certainly it must be galling to any conscientious murderer, who has just brought off a neat right and left, to hear his exploit described merely as ‘troublesome.’ There is nobody like an inspector of police for showing things up as they prosaically are.
“And why did you suddenly make up your mind to come and tell me all about it, sir?” pursued the inspector, with the air of one making polite conversation.
“I don’t see that I’m called upon to give you my reasons.”
“Of course not,” the inspector agreed with the utmost heartiness. “Worst thing in the world you could do. Never give reasons, that’s my advice. Have some more veal? Mr. Walton, you’ve finished; cut Mr. Woodthorpe some more veal.”
Anthony, who had been watching this exchange with open mouth, started violently and began to cut the bread.
“I don’t want any more veal, thank you,” said Mr. Woodthorpe, flushing angrily.
“Just as you like, sir, of course,” murmured the inspector, and bestowed a large wink on Roger.
Roger, to whom the gleam of light had now become a broad beam, returned the wink with interest.