"I've been so horribly ashamed——"
"Well, you aren't any more, are you?"
"No—but——" A thought seemed to strike her. "Lord Peter—I can't prove a word of this. Everybody will think I was in league with him. And they'll think that our quarrel and his getting engaged to Naomi was just a put-up job between us to get us both out of a difficulty."
"You've got brains," said Wimsey, admiringly. "Now you see why I thanked God you'd been so keen on an inquiry at first. Pritchard can make it pretty certain that you weren't an accessory before the fact, anyhow."
"Of course—so he can. Oh, I'm so glad! I am so glad." She burst into excited sobs and clutched Wimsey's hand. "I wrote him a letter—right at the beginning—saying I'd read about a case in which they'd proved the time of somebody's death by looking into his stomach, and asking if General Fentiman couldn't be dug up."
"Did you? Splendid girl! You have got a head on your shoulders!... No, I observe that it's on my shoulders. Go on. Have a real, good howl—I feel rather like howling myself. I've been quite worried about it all. But it's all right now, isn't it?"
"I am a fool ... but I'm so thankful you came."
"So am I. Here, have a hanky. Poor old dear!... Hullo! there's Marjorie."
He released her and went out to meet Marjorie Phelps at the door.
"Lord Peter! Good lord!"