The Saint looked.
"Messy sort of business, isn't it?" he said chattily. "Some of these hoodlums have no respect for the furniture. There ought to be a correspondence course in Good Manners for Murderers."
"That blood," Teal said incoherently. "It's drying…"
He went down clumsily on his knees beside the body, fumbled over it, and peered at the stain on the carpet. Then he got slowly to his feet, and his hot, resentful eyes burned on the Saint with a feverish light.
"This man has been dead for from three, to six hours," he said. "You could have gone to Anford and come back in that time!"
"I'm sorry," said the Saint regretfully.
"What for?"
Teal's voice was a hoarse bark.
Simon smiled.
"Because I spent all the morning in Anford."