The young man interposed smoothly. "If I were you, Chief Inspector," he suggested, "I shouldn't trouble. We've done roughly forty-eight thousand words, and he's just into his eleventh year. If he's got anything against you, I should begin to worry about it round about next Christmas."
H.M. pointed with a putter.
"I got a suspicion," he said, "a very strong suspicion, that that blighter there is always on the edge of making smart cracks at me. But he's got a cast-iron face. I'm serious about this book. It's goin' to be an important social and political document. You." He leered round at Ann Browning. "Were you laughin' at me:
The girl took her hands away from her face.
"You know I wouldn't do that," she assured him, with such apparent sincerity that he subsided. "But Mr. Courtney's fingers must be numb by this time. Why don't you take a breather so that the chief inspector can tell you what he's come to tell you?"
Masters stiffened.
"Morning, miss," he said noncommittally, but with a significant glance at H.M. He looked at Courtney. "Morning, sir."
H.M. performed introductions.
"This gal," he added, "is Race's protegée. She's been given instructions to stick to me, so there's nothing you can do about it, son."
Masters regarded Ann with a quickening of interest.