Simon struck his lighter and made the delayed kindling of his cigarette.
"So what with one thing and another, Claud," he said, "I'm afraid you're going to have to let me go."
Chief Inspector Teal barred his way. The leaden bitterness of defeat was curdling in his stomach, but there was a sultry smoulder in his eyes that was more relentless and dangerous than his first unimpeded blaze of wrath. He might have suffered ten thousand failures, but he had never given up. And now there was a grim determination in him that tightened his teeth crushingly on his battered scrap of spearmint.
"You still haven't told me what you're doing here," he said stolidly.
Simon Templar trickled smoke through momentarily sober lips.
"I came to see Windlay," he said. "I wanted to see him before somebody else did. Only I was too late. You can believe that or not as you like. But the late John Kennet shared this place with him."
The detective's eyes went curiously opaque. He stood with a wooden stillness.
"What was the verdict at this inquest?"
"Accidental death."
"Do you think there was anything wrong with that?"