She said, almost desperately: "That fellow who was left — in there. Why did you ask if he was any relation of the M.P.?"
"It just occurred to me. And he was. That's the funny part. Because unless my memory's all cockeyed, he's a flaming Red and a frightful thorn in the side of his respectable papa. He's the one part of the picture that doesn't fit in. Why should a really outstanding crop of old and young Diehards like that ask anyone like John Kennet down for a week end?"
"He might have amused them."
"Would you credit them with that much sense of humour?"
"I don't know. But if it was a joke, they must be feeling pretty badly about it." She shuddered. "I know it's all over now, but I hope — I hope they were right — that the smoke did put him out before the fire got to him."
Simon's cigarette reddened again for a long moment before he answered.
"If there's one thing I'm sure of, I'm sure that the fire didn't hurt him," he said; and the way he said it stopped her breath for a moment.
The noise in her brain screamed up in an insane cacophony.
"You mean—"
"I mean — murder," said the Saint.