"I can tell you the truth about that goddam skeleton in the dock."
"Ah! Just so! Anything else?"
Again there was so oppressive a quiet that they could hear, above H.M.'s head, the almost noiseless gold clock ticking between its two candelabra. The satiny dark-red walls, with their high cream-coloured curtains, seemed to have a stifling quality despite their open windows.
"Y’know," said H.M. thoughtfully, "I've been an awful dummy. Almost as bad a dummy as when I nearly slipped up in that Goblin Wood case. It was because I never connected the pink flash with wood."
"You never connected the pink flash with.. what?"
"With wood," said H.M., reaching over to knock his knuckles on a table.
"Goddelmighty," whispered Masters. "Listen, sir! When Sir George fell off that roof, the only wooden-made things on it were the frames of the beach-chairs and the wicker settee! And all of 'em were fifty feet away from him!"
"I know that"
"Was somebody biding behind them?" "No."
Masters wiped his forehead. ELM. was persisting in mazy speculation.