"Good idea."
Wimsey's face cleared, and for some time they absorbed mussels from the shell with speechless, though not altogether silent, satisfaction.
"By the way," said Wimsey, suddenly, "you never told me that you had seen your grandfather the afternoon before he died."
George flushed. He was struggling with a particularly elastic mussel, firmly rooted to the shell, and could not answer for a moment.
"How on earth?—confound it all, Wimsey, are you behind this infernal watch that's being kept on me?"
"Watch?"
"Yes, I said watch. I call it a damn rotten thing to do. I never thought for a moment you had anything to do with it."
"I haven't. Who's keeping a watch on you?"
"There's a fellow following me about. A spy. I'm always seeing him. I don't know whether he's a detective or what. He looks like a criminal. He came down in the 'bus with me from Finsbury Park this morning. He was after me all day yesterday. He's probably about now. I won't have it. If I catch sight of him again I shall knock his dirty little head off. Why should I be followed and spied on? I haven't done anything. And now you begin."
"I swear I've nothing to do with anybody following you about. Honestly, I haven't. I wouldn't employ a man, anyway, who'd let a bloke see that he was being followed. No. When I start huntin' you, I shall be as silent and stealthy as a gas-leak. What's this incompetent bloodhound like to look at?"