"You bet you don't But I can tell you. Sir George was a man over forty, who'd just climbed some long flights of stairs. He got excited waving to the hunt; he came over dizzy, as anybody might; and he fell. Do you still want to know the colour of the beach-chairs?'
"Sure I do," retorted H.M. instantly, taking the cigar out of his mouth. "What's the pink flash?" "Pink flash?"
"Certainly. See the second anonymous postcard on the table in front of you. Quote: Re Sir George Fleet: what was the pink flash on the roof? Go on, Masters: say it's a pink rat and I ought to be makin' faces at it"
"But there's not a word about a pink flash in any of this evidence!"
"No," returned H.M., "and there's not one word about a skeleton-clock either. But you'll find one standing just behind you."
Masters strode over to the middle of the room, where he jingled coins in his pocket
"This chap Puckston," mused H.M. "I didn't realize he was still the licensee here. By that statement, he didn't seem to like Fleet much."
"There's nothing to that," Masters snorted. "It was only…"
Whether by coincidence, or at mention of the name, there was a discreet tap at the door to the bar. The door opened, to reveal the Puckston family: father, mother, and daughter.
To a befuddled Martin Drake, Arthur Puckston had been little more than a name and a voice. He was, in fact a lean man with a freckled bald head, a harassed but conscientious smile; tall but stooped, with stringy powerful arms. Mrs. Norma Puckston, though stoutened and rosy, had fine black hair and was not unattractive. Miss Puckston, dark-haired and sixteen years old, was not unattractive either.