"Waffles Newton will probably know something," he said. "I'll see what I can dig out. Thanks very much, old man. That's given me an idea. We might get one of her pictures on the back pages. The old lady seems to have been a queer old soul. Odd will, wasn't it?"
"Oh, I can tell you all about that," said Wimsey. "I thought you probably knew."
He gave Hardy the history of Lady Dormer as he had heard it from Mr. Murbles. The journalist was enthralled.
"Great stuff!" he said. "That'll get em. Romance there! This'll be a scoop for the Yell. Excuse me. I want to 'phone it through to 'em before somebody else gets it. Don't hand it out to any of the other fellows."
"They can get it from Robert or George Fentiman," warned Wimsey.
"Not much, they won't," said Salcombe Hardy, feelingly. "Robert Fentiman gave old Barton of the Banner such a clip under the ear this morning that he had to go and see a dentist. And George has gone down to the Bellona, and they won't let anybody in. I'm all right on this. If there's anything I can do for you, I will, you bet. So long."
He faded away. A hand was laid on Peter's arm.
"You're neglecting me shockingly," said Marjorie Phelps. "And I'm frightfully hungry. I've been doing my best to find things out for you."
"That's top-hole of you. Look here. Come and sit out in the hall; it's quieter. I'll scrounge some grub and bring it along."
He secured a quantity of curious little stuffed buns, four petits-fours, some dubious claret-cup and some coffee and brought them with him on a tray, snatched while the waitress's back was turned.