“I believe you wished me to let you know, Dr. Crackenthorpe, if I should be in further need of your services?”
He swallowed huge gulps of tea with an unpleasant noise, protruding his lips like a gargoyle, but answer made he none.
“I am in need of your services.”
He dissected the leg of a fowl with professional relish, but did not speak. In a gust of childish anger that was farcical I nipped the joint between finger and thumb and threw it into the fire.
For an instant he sat dumfounded staring at his empty plate; then he scrambled to his feet and ran to the mantelshelf all in a scurry of fury and began diving among the litter there and tossing it right and left.
“The pistol—the pistol!” he muttered, in a cracked voice. “Where is it? What have I done with it?”
“Never mind. You expect a fee for your services, I suppose?”
He slackened in his feverish search and I saw he was listening to me.
“You don’t want to kill the goose with the golden eggs, I presume?” said I, coolly.
He twisted round and faced me.