“I can but offer you my humble apologies,” he said. “They are of no avail; they will not undo what is done. But none the less I offer them to you. You see, when I last saw you alive, you were so drunk, so very drunk——”
“I was not drunk at all,” said Mr. Jetsam. “And your inability to perceive the fact proves that, though you may be able to wear a very stylish uniform and to make a great deal of noise with a band, you are an infant as a detective. No, sir, I had certain plans to execute, and you, with that meddlesomeness that appears to characterize you, came along and interfered. In order that I might be left alone I pretended to be drunk. I have never been drunk in my life, which is conceivably more than you can say for yourself, or you, sir”—and he pointed to the young doctor, who had only recently finished being a medical student.
“And those plans—may one inquire?” Carpentaria murmured.
Mr. Jetsam covered his face with his hands.
“Ah!” he sighed, evidently speaking to himself. “I had done with all that, and now I must begin again. My instincts will inevitably drive me to begin again. My dear people”—he surveyed his two companions with an acid and distant stare—“instead of saving life, you have only set in motion a chain of circumstances that will lead to the loss of it. Murder and the scaffold will probably be the net result of your officious zeal.”
There was a rap on the bedroom door.
“Five minutes to eight, sir,” called a voice.
“Right,” said Carpentaria, getting up; and to Mr. Jetsam, “I will see you after the concert.”
“I doubt it,” said Mr. Jetsam.
“Why not?”