“Was it your custom to dine with him?”
“Usually I did. Our dinner party generally consisted of Mr. Stewart, his son, Miss Lennox, and me.”
“Was that the case last evening?”
Charles Stewart intervened. “I did not dine here last evening. I was out. I think I told you. I was playing tennis.”
Clegg nodded his head. “That’s all right, sir! I understand!”
Llewellyn proceeded. “Colonel Leach-Fletcher completed our party last evening—but really, I don’t see——”
“Had this Colonel any particular reason for dining here last evening?”
Stewart allowed a faint smile to illumine his features. “What on earth do you mean, Sergeant? Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here at my poor father’s invitation—he didn’t suddenly announce that he intended to stop for dinner.”
Llewellyn’s brooding eyes seemed to smoulder for a brief instant—then they flickered back to their habitual watchfulness. He allowed himself the vestige of a smile. His smile broadened as the Sergeant made a clumsy attempt at extrication.
“Naturally, naturally, gentlemen. Exactly what I meant.” He followed the secretary’s eyes and observed them rest on the desk-table in front of the dead man. “It seems that Mr. Stewart was writing a message of some kind when he was struck down?”