'To catch the mur—?"
"Quiet, sir!" muttered Masters; and his tone was deadly serious. It was as though the blare of fair-music dwindled in Martin's ears; then grew louder with an implication of what it was to conceal.
"But, H.M.," he protested, "Jenny tells me you saw this man, What's-his-name, who manages the fair, yesterday morning or afternoon. If I've got the facts right, you didn't tumble to the whole solution until late yesterday night Then how could the fair have—?".
"Son," said H.M., "when I talked to that fine feller Solomon MacDougall I was having — hem! — maybe evil thoughts as well as holy thoughts. About skulls that chattered: you see what I mean? But I also saw last night how the cards were bein' dealt straight into our hands. See what I mean?"
"No."
"Anyhow, it's so. If you hear Masters or me say, 'Pip,’ you jump to it and ask no questions. Got that?" "Right."
Their looks were still in Martin's mind ten minutes later when the old car, with Ruth and Stannard in the rear seat Martin in front with Ricky, moved along the main road southwards under a canopy of mellow sunlight It moved so slowly that Dr. Lauder's car passed them, the doctor giving a pince-nez flicker of greeting and touching the brim of his hat At sight of the other car, Ricky blurted out what he had to say.
"I want to explain," he said, "why I seemed to be such a hound towards Mother."
From their previous conversation, it bad been clear that Ricky no longer felt any distrust of Stannard. Sheer admiration of Stannard's conduct in the execution shed would have done that Stannard’'s friendliness was apparent too, though he treated Ricky as an indulgent uncle would treat a nephew of sixteen.
"My dear boy!" The husky chuckle remonstrated. "You 'can't be called a hound for inviting your mother to a fair."