"Damned decent of you. You know, I did tumble to it that you'd got a line on me when you sent me down with that detective fellow to Charing Cross. And, I say, you nearly had me there! I'd made up my mind to pretend to go after Oliver—you know—and then I spotted that second bloodhound of yours on the train with me. That gave me goose-flesh all over. The only thing I could think of—short of chucking up the whole show—was to accuse some harmless old bird of being Oliver—as a proof of good faith, don't you see."
"That was it, was it? I thought you must have some reason."
"Yes—and then, when I got that summons to Paris, I thought I must, somehow, have diddled the lot of you. But I suppose that was all arranged for. I say, Wimsey, why? Did you just want to get your own back, or what? Why did you want me out of England?"
"Yes, indeed, Lord Peter," said Mr. Murbles, gravely. "I think you owe me at least some explanation on that point."
"Don't you see," said Wimsey, "Fentiman was his grandfather's executor. If I got him out of the way, you couldn't stop the exhumation."
"Ghoul!" said Robert. "I believe you batten on corpses."
Wimsey laughed, rather excitedly.
"Fentiman," he said, "what would you give at this moment for your chance of that half-million?"
"Chance?" cried Fentiman. "There's no chance at all. What do you mean?"
Wimsey slowly drew a paper from his pocket.