"Oh, damn the badger at this hour!" swore Mr. Rogers. "Cards are quiet at any rate. Here, Raby—Penrose—Tregaskis—which of you'll cut in? Whitmore—you'll take a hand, won't you?"
"The Parson's tired to-night, and with better excuse than you. He's ridden down from Plymouth."
"Hallo, Whitmore—what were you doing in Plymouth?"
Mr. Whitmore ignored the question. "I'm ready for a hand, Miss Belcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet—a rubber for choice."
"Half-guinea points?" asked somebody.
"Yes, if you will."
I heard them settle to cards, and their voices sink to a murmur. Now and again a few coins clinked, and one of the guests yawned.
"You're as melancholy as gib-cats," announced Miss Belcher. "The next that yawns, I'll send him out to fetch in that badger. Tell us a story, somebody."
"I heard the beginning of a queer one," said Mr. Whitmore in his deliberate voice. "The folks were discussing it at Torpoint Ferry as I crossed. There's, been a murder at Plymouth, either last night or this morning."
"A murder? Who's the victim?"