Forsyth put in his oar.
“Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of beer.”
“Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared it with a friend.”
“Then produce the friend.”
“I can’t,” said Pembury.
“ ‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?”
“Won’t.”
Forsyth threw up his hands.
Quaritch leaned forward.
“You do see the point, Lord Pembury? The introduction of the friend makes it a shade more palatable, but it doesn’t eliminate that distressing element of eccentricity. Is it your practice to—er—sport a bottle of beer? Of course not. Then why did you do it? From hospitable motives? For a wager? Why?”