“I suppose other religious bodies have their Crockfords,” suggested Parker, a little hopelessly.
“Yes, no doubt—except perhaps the more exclusive sects—like the Agapemonites and those people who gather together to say OM. Was it Voltaire who said that the English had three hundred and sixty-five religions and only one sauce?”
“Judging from the War Tribunals,” said Parker, “I should say that was an under-statement. And then there’s America—a country, I understand, remarkably well supplied with religions.”
“Too true. Hunting for a single dog-collar in the States must be like the proverbial needle. Still, we could make a few discreet inquiries, and meanwhile I’m going to totter up to Crofton with the jolly old ’bus.”
“Crofton?”
“Where Miss Clara Whittaker and Miss Dawson used to live. I’m going to look for the man with the little black bag—the strange, suspicious solicitor, you remember, who came to see Miss Dawson two years ago, and was so anxious that she should make a will. I fancy he knows all there is to know about the Rev. Hallelujah and his claim. Will you come too?”
“Can’t—not without special permission. I’m not officially on this case, you know.”
“You’re on the Gotobed business. Tell the Chief you think they’re connected. I shall need your restraining presence. No less ignoble pressure than that of the regular police force will induce a smoke-dried family lawyer to spill the beans.”
“Well, I’ll try—if you’ll promise to drive with reasonable precaution.”
“Be thou as chaste as ice and have a license as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. I am not a dangerous driver. Buck up and get your leave. The snow-white horsepower foams and frets and the blue bonnet—black in this case—is already, in a manner of speaking, over the border.”