Chief inspector claud eustace teal fastened his chewing gum well back in his mouth and prayed that his collar would stand the strain of the swelling which he could feel creeping up his neck.
"Are you trying to tell me that I'm raving mad?" he squawked.
He had not meant to squawk. But those same infuriating convulsions with which he was only too bitterly familiar were taking hold of his vocal cords again, robbing his voice of the rich commanding resonance which for some reason he could never achieve when he faced that lazy, derisive buccaneer who had long ago taken all the joy out of his life. And the sound of his own squawking filled him with such flabbergasted fury that it only increased his internal feeling of inflation till his collar creaked perilously on its studs.
"What — me?" protested the Saint in shocked accents. "Claud, have I ever been rude to you? Have I ever hurt your feelings? I may think things, but I keep them to myself—"
"Listen." The detective took hold of himself with both pudgy hands. "I've spent two hours at Quintana's house—"
"Did you have fun?"
"I've spent most of that time talking to Quintana. I took Urivetzky away with me — he's in a cell at Cannon Row now—"
"You took who?"
"Urivetzky."
"What are Urivetzky?" asked the Saint. "They sound like a remedy for rheumatism. Have you been having some more trouble with that gouty toe of yours?"