Fairweather's thinly jovial voice broke off sharply as he realized that there was someone else in the room. He stared at the Saint for a long moment, with his mouth slightly open, while his fat face turned into the likeness of a piece of lard. And then, without any acknowledgment of recognition, he turned deliberately back to Lady Valerie.
"We shouldn't have left you so long," he said. "I hope you haven't been annoyed."
"Of course she's been annoyed!" General Sangore's stormy voice burst out without the subtlety of Fairweather's snub. "It's an insult for that feller to speak to any decent person after his behaviour this morning. Damned if I know what he meant by it, anyway."
Simon put his hands in his pockets and relaxed against a cabinet full of hideous porcelain.
"What I meant by it was that I believe Kennet was murdered," he said good-humouredly. "Now have I made myself quite clear?"
The general glared at him from under his bushy eyebrows. He seemed to expect Simon to melt like wax.
"By Gad, sir," he said truculently, "you're — you're a bounder! I've never heard such bad form in my life!"
"You mean that if it was murder you'd rather have it hushed up, don't you?" Simon said gently. "You didn't murder him yourself by any chance, did you?"
Sangore's complexion went a rich mottled puce. He tried to speak, but there seemed to be an obstruction in his throat.
Simon went on talking, and his voice was cool and pitiless.