"He seems rather good at shootin' and runnin' away," said Peter grimly.
"If he hadn't done that to you," said Mary slowly, "I'd never have told you. I'd have died first. But of course, with his revolutionary doctrines—and when you think of red Russia and all the blood spilt in riots and insurrections and things—I suppose it does teach a contempt for human life."
"My dear," said the Duchess, "it seems to me that Mr. Goyles shows no especial contempt for his own life. You must try to look at the thing fairly. Shooting people and running away is not very heroic—according to our standards."
"The thing I don't understand," struck in Wimsey hurriedly, "is how Gerald's revolver got into the shrubbery."
"The thing I should like to know about," said the Duchess, "is, was Denis really a card-sharper?"
"The thing I should like to know about," said Parker, "is the green-eyed cat."
"Denis never gave me a cat," said Mary. "That was a tarradiddle."
"Were you ever in a jeweler's with him in the Rue de la Paix?"
"Oh, yes; heaps of times. And he gave me a diamond and tortoiseshell comb. But never a cat."
"Then we may disregard the whole of last night's elaborate confession," said Lord Peter, looking through Parker's notes, with a smile. "It's really not bad, Polly, not bad at all. You've quite a talent for romantic fiction—no, I mean it! Just here and there you need more attention to detail. For instance, you couldn't have dragged that badly wounded man all up the path to the house without getting blood all over your coat, you know. By the way, did Goyles know Cathcart at all?"