"Well, he never minded how filthy dirty you got, or if you were in a fight. If you wanted something to do with games, he'd buy it for you before the words were out of your mouth."
Ricky dismissed this. "No; I was thinking about Mother. That swine of a lawyer must have said something… no, he couldn't have! Ruth swore he didn't upset her, and Ruth's as honest as the Bank of England. Never mind. What did you want to know?"
"I want to know," roared H.M., "the colour of the beach-chairs."
At this particular point the roof-door in the corner opened. Chief Inspector Masters, wearing a bowler hat and carrying the brief-case, overheard the last words as he stepped out on the roof.
"Goddelmighty," said Masters, very softly and wearily.
"By the way," H.M. told Ricky. "This weasel is the Chief Inspector I was telling you about Don't pay any attention to him."
Ricky, though considerably more impressed by Scotland Yard than he could ever have been impressed by H.M, nevertheless turned back.
"You mean — the beach-chairs then?"
"Yes! Not this chromium stuff now. Do you remember?"
"Ho! Do I remember!" snorted Ricky. "The old lot stayed here from the early days practically to the time I was at Cambridge."