“Ass!” growled his cousin, and helped himself to stewed gooseberries. “Well, what about your story now, then? Did you know Roger had solved the mystery, Inspector?”
“No, Mr. Walton, I didn’t,” said the inspector with interest. “Has he?”
“Well, he thinks he has,” said Anthony nastily.
“Now, now, Anthony,” Roger reproved. “Don’t be vindictive.—Yes,” he added modestly to the inspector. “I’ve solved the mystery all right. And I warn you that I’m going to telephone part of it at any rate to London to-night, though not the bit you wanted suppressed for the present, of course.”
“Well, well!” said the inspector. “These gooseberries seem to me a bit sour, didn’t you think?”
“Inspector Moresby,” said Roger with heat, “there are some people for whose murder it’s well worth while to be hanged. You’re one of them. So take this as a friendly warning and don’t try me too far.”
“But they are a bit sour, Mr. Sheringham,” protested the inspector. “Really!”
“So are the grapes too, I’m afraid,” Roger grinned. “Never mind, Inspector; perhaps I shan’t be on your next case.—So the story-books are right after all when they talk about Scotland Yard’s professional jealousy of the amateur.”
“True, sir,” said the inspector, shaking his head. “Terribly true.”
“See in the paper this morning that Glamorgan have won their eleventh match this season, Anthony?” Roger remarked airily. “Extraordinary how they’ve come on, isn’t it? We shall see them head of the table soon.”