"I've got to warn you, sir," announced Masters, in his voice that always seemed to dispel tense atmospheres, "that you take me in at your own risk. I'm not officially connected with this case, although Inspector Potter's a relative of mine. So that only makes me a sort of guest at your pleasure. So if you don't mind sitting down to table with a copper; eh? Just so. An! Yes, the kippers, if you please."
John Bohun lowered his head.
"I say, inspector, you may omit the urbanity. Have you found out anything since you talked to Willard and me?"
"I'm afraid not, sir. Matter of fact, I've been talking to a gentleman named Rainger," Masters answered, with his mouth full.
"Your esteemed friend, Maurice," said John, turning his head. "The one who's going to make you a technical adviser on the films…"
Maurice put down his knife and fork gently. He peered across the table and said, "Why not?" in a voice of such clear common-sense that Bennett turned to look at him. Then Maurice smiled vaguely and went on eating.
"I'm afraid — said Masters, and seemed to hesitate. His big grin showed behind a loaded fork. "Mr. Rainger's a very interesting gentleman, and I admire his work, but I'm afraid he's been drinking this morning. Eli? Just so. That, and making wild accusations he may not be able to support. Can't support."
"Accusations?" John Bohun asked sharply.
"Um. Of murder." Masters was deprecating. "Point of fact, he accused you. Lot of such rubbish. Ah! Real cream!"
John got up from his chair.