"No, sir?"
"No. Lemme tell you so about some of the real things. I can't be bothered with these criminal cases any more. They don't interest me. I wouldn't touch one if-"
"Telephone for you, sir," interrupted a lean and elderly maid, sticking her head into the room. "Hey?"
"Gloucester wants you. Office of the Chief Constable, that's what they say."
H.M. glowered at his guest with a look of deep, challenging suspicion, but Courtney kept a guileless face. H.M. cursed telephones and Chief Constables. But he plodded out into the hall to take the call. Courtney could hear him bellowing to the instrument like a sergeant-major on a parade-ground.
"Looky here, Race. I told you the cyanide was in the knitting-bag, and if you arrest that sister-in-law…"
Pause.
"What do you mean, another case?…
"Race, I tell you I can't! Burn me, I got important work on hand. I'm dictatin' my..
"Well, if you think it's goin' to be embarrassing, why don't you call in Scotland Yard?…