"Bless my soul," said Mr. Murbles. "Let us go at once. Really, this is most exciting. That is, I am profoundly grieved. I hope it is not as you say."
They hastened downstairs and stood for a few moments waiting for a taxi to pass. Suddenly Wimsey made a dive into a dark corner by the porch. There was a scuffle, and out into the light came a small man, heavily muffled in an overcoat, with his hat thrust down to his eyebrows in the manner of a stage detective. Wimsey unbonneted him with the air of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat.
"So it's you, is it? I thought I knew your face. What the devil do you mean by following people about like this?"
The man ceased struggling and glanced sharply up at him with a pair of dark, beady eyes.
"Do you think it wise, my lord, to use violence?"
"Who is it?" asked Parker.
"Pritchard's clerk. He's been hanging round George Fentiman for days. Now he's hanging round me. He's probably the fellow that's been hanging round the Bellona. If you go on like this, my man, you'll find yourself hanging somewhere else one of these days. Now, see here. Do you want me to give you in charge?"
"That is entirely as your lordship pleases," said the clerk, with a cunning sneer. "There is a policeman just round the corner, if you wish to attract publicity."
Wimsey looked at him for a moment, and then began to laugh.
"When did you last see Mr. Pritchard? Come on, out with it! Yesterday? This morning? Have you seen him since lunch-time?"