"You sent a message to Ricky Fleet, who was at Brayle Manor, that an enemy was waitin' for him at the Dragon. Your gal and Sophie were there when he got the message. I've heard this from a very particular source.”
"Didn't it strike you as a bit odd that he should come over there so quickly? The proper reply to you should have been, 'I'm waiting at your service here at Brayle Manor; came and see me.' Above all the sweet fireworks of heaven, didn't it seem odd that your gal, should have come flyin' over there on a bicycle, as frightened as blazes, to anticipate him?"
Martin looked at Jenny, who had turned her head away.
"It did seem funny, yes. But Jenny said she had to know what happened between us."
"Sure. And that was true, as far as it went Now: presto-chango: watch! In the doorway of the second bar-parlour at his most charmin', stands Richard Fleet grown up. At his prime. Intoxicated by his war-success; but modest not showin' it Assured by this dotin' mother there's not a woman alive who can resist him. Quite believing it with conceit runnin’ in his veins like blood. Down he sits, takes out his pipe, and asks what's up.”
"And you give it to him between the eyes that you love your Jenny, she loves you, and you mean to get married." H.M. drew a deep breath.
"Son," he went on, "do you remember how Ricky Fleet sat there for a few seconds, with his leg over the chair-arm: not movin', just lookin', without any expression in his eyes: creepy as creepy?"
"Lord knows I do!" Martin answered. “I started to shout out something about being sorry, and I could hear what seemed like the skeleton-clock ticking in the other room…"
"If he'd had a weapon then," HM. observed very quietly, "you'd have been a dead man."
"You mean… about Jenny and Ricky and their engagement… he really did—?’