“Yes, it’s nice to see a county that plays more than one amateur doing well for a change,” Anthony responded with alacrity.
Roger kept the conversation firmly upon cricket till the inspector had swallowed his last mouthful and the dinner things had been cleared away, and even till the inspectorial pipe was well alight and the inspectorial countenance decidedly bored.
“By the way, sir,” remarked Inspector Moresby, relaxing comfortably in the armchair to which he had transferred himself. “By the way, didn’t I hear you say something about having solved the mystery?”
“I thought you’d come round, with time and gentle treatment,” Roger laughed. “Yes, Inspector, joking apart, I really think I have solved it. Care to hear?”
“Of course I would, sir. You mustn’t mind if I pull your leg now and then.”
“Well, I do a bit of that myself,” Roger admitted. “But look here, the trouble is Anthony. I haven’t told him yet, because it’s all bound up with what you confided to me the other night; but of course he wants to hear. Can’t you stretch a point and let me just give him a quick idea of what you told me?”
The inspector hesitated. “You’ll give me your word that it wouldn’t go any further, then, Mr. Walton? Not to another mortal soul?”
“On my oath,” Anthony agreed eagerly.
“It’s highly irregular,” sighed the inspector, “but—very well, Mr. Sheringham; fire away!”
Roger proceeded to give Anthony a brief outline of how Meadows had met his death and the discovery of the aconitine in the tobacco-jar.