"Well? Colours?"
"The beach-chairs were striped green and black. There was a combination of settee and wicker chairs, also striped green and black."
"What about the floor?"
"It was painted dull grey, like the chimneys then." "Nothing pink?"
"Pink? No; not unless it was carried up here like a coat or something."
H.M.'s expression grew murderous. "Looky here, son. I'm not doubtin' your word, but it was a long time ago. Can anybody verify what you say?"
Ricky considered.
"Miss Upton — no, she left two years later and they pensioned her off. MacAndrews, the gardener and handyman? No: Crawshay! Crawshay was the butler. Nobody has a butler nowadays except Grandmother Brayle. But he still lives at Reading; Mother can give you his address. And he'll tell you it's gospel truth!"
"Very interesting, sir," Masters observed satirically, to the surrounding air. "Are we getting on the track of that pink flash at last?"
H.M. stood for a moment, blinking. Then he turned round and lumbered towards the front of the roof, standing at the very edge. Masters, on the spot, could see the impossibility of anyone attacking Sir George Fleet in that fifty feet square beyond the chimneys of what had been bare concrete.