"Can't you?" Orr asked again.
Annandale stood up. It was as though the question had prodded him. He moved to the sideboard. But Orr got in his way.
"Don't drink any more. Try to think."
"I can't," said Annandale. He moved back and sat down. In his face the flush had deepened. It looked mottled. He himself looked ill.
Orr, a hand extended on the sideboard, beat on it a brief tattoo.
"This is rather tedious," he said at last. "It is only a little less than a year ago that you had a similar lapse. Oddly enough, it began as this has, at my cousin's house. But we must try to keep her out of the matter. Were she asked what you said it might be embarrassing, don't you think?"
"What I said? What did I say?"
Annandale as he spoke looked so abject that Orr feared that he might go to pieces there and then. Humanely he changed the subject. "Of course, whoever did it will be nabbed. Meanwhile, it is only to prevent any stupid suspicions that I venture to advise. By the way, have you any idea who could have done it?"
Annandale again ran his hand across his eyes; then, looking up at Orr, he replied: "Not one—unless he did it himself."
"H'm. Well, yes. That might be. But what does Mrs. Annandale think?"