Early in the morning Carver called at the Pitt Hotel and personally interviewed a sleepy-eyed Rex, who sat up in bed in violently striped pyjamas and expostulated with commendable mildness upon the interruption to his night’s sleep.
“I am one of those people,” he said severely, “who require at least twelve hours’ heavy slumber. Heaven having endowed me with the means whereby I can gratify my wishes in this respect, it is a little short of an outrage that Tab and you should call me up even to tell me that the flat has been burgled again.”
Reporting his interview on his return to the flat, Carver offered a few remarks on the vagaries of masculine fashions, particularly in relation to pyjamas, and came back at a tangent to the very serious events of the past twelve hours.
“I think you’ll be all right tonight,” he said. “At any rate, I am leaving you to your own devices. Bolt the door and put a trip wire between a couple of chairs.”
“Oh nonsense!” said Tab. “He will not come again tonight.”
Carver scratched his chin.
“What is tonight.”
“Saturday.”
“The fatal Saturday eh?” he said. “No, perhaps not. What are you doing today?”
“I am driving a friend into the country, or rather she is driving me,” said Tab promptly. “It is my week-end off, but I shall be back in town tonight.”