“The wine cellars are closed. I don’t want the bother of unlocking them—and I never drink.”
“Cloos,” said Julius loudly.
“Oh! I thought you said ... well, find some.”
Bent double, he prowled round the room. Diana ate biscuits ravenously.
“Somebody has been here,” he pointed to the big chair near the fireplace. “Look at that cushion—there’s the mark of a head.”
“Mine,” she was laconic, a trifle unkind. “Look for cigar-ash, my dear Watson!”
He eyed her with a certain amount of suspicion which was largely justified.
“Come and eat,” she said, and dropped the biscuit tin within reach. “Now how on earth did he get out?”
“Who?”