Elizabeth was speaking.
“Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s happened?”
“I will,” said her host. “Dick had a smash late on Sunday night. Nobody was hurt. He was arrested and charged. They say he smelt of liquor and a bottle was found in the car. He appeared on Monday morning and pleaded ‘Not guilty.’ Evidence of arrest was given and the case was adjourned for a week.”
“What’s to-day?” said Elizabeth.
“Friday.”
“Thank you. Go on.”
“That’s all, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie. “We didn’t tell you, because——”
“You did, though, didn’t you?” said Elizabeth, looking Sir Hilton in the face.
“I naturally assumed——”
“Quite a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Recreations—golf, yachting, assumption. You assumed that he was drunk. You assumed that I knew about it. I suppose you assumed that, in view of my knowledge, I should relish your recent conversation, including the fact that you had written to The Times, urging ‘the infliction of penalties—imprisonment, of course—so harsh . . .’ ” She stopped dead there. Then her voice rang out. “Why did you write that letter?”