"Grandmother put her own face almost against the bars, and (don't think I've forgotten a word!) she said: 'It may be conceded that you won the first round, Henry; but can there be any doubt about who won the second?'" Martin whistled.
"Jenny," he declared, "something tells me there is going to be a third round. And that the third round will be a beauty."
"But that's just what mustn't happen!" Jenny, peering at him past the side of her yellow hair, was again the eager and the breathless. "Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter if it's something silly, like making skeletons gibber. Though even there I doubt whether your H.M. is as clever as Grandmother."
"You think that, eh?"
"Yes. I do."
"Wait," advised Martin.
"But the skeleton-in-the-clock," Jenny told him, her thin and arched eyebrows drawn together, "is a different thing. It's serious, and — it may be deadly. Do you realize, from what H.M. said at Willaby's and from every bit of gossip floating about, that H.M. thinks this skeleton is a vital piece of evidence?"
"But evidence of what?"
"I wish I knew. And he told us straight out what he thought about Sir George Fleet's… death."
"You're sure it was murder too. Aren't you, Jenny?"