"Hubert died from concussion of the brain early on Monday morning."
Rich whistled. "As bad as that?"
"It wouldn't have been for an ordinary person, no. But haven't you, as a medical man, seen his head? Those hollows at the temples? The bone formation? He's one of those blokes who have almost eggshell skulls. A blow which would only knock out you or me would kill him. But he didn't know it. And in all innocence, to prove the phantom outsider knocked him out, he held that lump of stone high over his head, and — killed him-self. Incidentally, for all of you, it's die best thing that could have happened."
"You mean," muttered Sharpless, and looked at the floor, "scandal."
"Yes. Scandal. I suppose you and madam still are goin' to get married?"
"Are we!" roared Sharpless, and took the hand of a beaming Vicky. "Are we?"
"Well, son, if Hubert Fane had come to trial, the amount of scandal that'd have been poured out would have kept the newspapers (and your old man, and the War Office) interested for some time. Hubert would’ve seen to that. As it is—"
"As it is?"
"They've already given it out that Arthur Fane was murdered by his late uncle, who was believed to be a good deal of a loony. And that's not far out either. So don't be too precipitate, and you'll be all right."
The corners of H.M.'s mouth turned down. He flung his cigar across into the fireplace. An expression of all the world in collusion against him weighed him down and pained him.