Unfortunately Woodthorpe intercepted both. He sprang wrathfully to his feet again, knocking his chair over behind him. “Look here,” he burst out, “I’ve had about enough of this fooling. I told you what I came here for, Inspector. Are you going to arrest me or are you not?”
The inspector looked up from his plate. “Well, sir,” he said blandly, “since you ask me so candidly—no, I’m not!—But I’d like to ask you a few questions, perhaps.”
For a long moment the eyes of the two men held each other, while a deep flush slowly overspread the younger’s face. Then Woodthorpe turned away and marched over to the door.
“Then you can jolly well come up to my home and ask me them there,” he announced as he opened it. “I’ve had about enough of this.” The door closed behind him with a bang.
“That looks like a walk for me, I’m afraid,” observed the inspector with regret.
“Yes,” Roger laughed. “He got one back on you there, Inspector.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Anthony. “Good Lord!”
“What’s the matter, Anthony?” Roger asked sympathetically.
“You mean—that chap never did it at all?”
“No, not exactly that, Anthony,” said Roger with a grave face. “It’s simply that Inspector Moresby has a conscientious objection to arresting anybody for murder under the age of thirty.”