“I know he was,” said Sir Hilton.
“Is,” said Elizabeth. “Is. And always will be. Never mind. Who says he was drunk?”
“The police, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie, putting an arm about her waist. “He ran into something—a taxi, on Sunday night—— What is it, darling?”
Elizabeth was trembling violently.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Let me sit down. ‘On Sunday night,’ you were saying. Yes?”
“On Sunday night, in Park Lane. He wasn’t hurt. And the police—you know what they are—immediately jumped to the conclusion——”
“Be just, Mrs. Fairie,” said Shutter. “It wasn’t a question of jumping to any conclusion. Finding him drunk, they——”
“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Fairie, setting a brandy and soda in Elizabeth’s hand, “whether they found him drunk or sober has yet to be decided. At present he’s merely charged with being drunk.”
“Of course,” said Shutter, “if you like to split hairs——”
“It isn’t a question of hair-splitting,” said his host. “It’s a question of cold facts. If the charge is dismissed—as it will be—he could sue you for slander for this, and just waltz home.”