He was back on the edge of the table, evidently his favourite resting-place, she thought, and he ticked her questions off on his fingers.
"Question number one cannot be answered. Question number two, why do I pretend to be a—a drunkard?" he mimicked her audaciously. "There are other things which intoxicate a man beside love and beer, Miss Cresswell."
"How gross!" she protested. "What are they?"
"Work, the chase, scientific research and the first spring scent of the hawthorn," he said solemnly. "As to the third question, why was I not around when you were nearly arrested? Well, I was around. I was in your flat when you came in and escaped along the fire parapet."
"Mr. Beale!" she gasped. "Then it was you—you are a detective!"
"I turned your desk and dressing-chest upside down? Yes, it was I," he said without shame, ignoring the latter part of the sentence. "I was looking for something."
"You were looking for something?" she repeated. "What were you looking for?"
"Three registered envelopes which were planted in your flat yesterday morning," he said, "and what's more I found 'em!"
She put her hand to her forehead in bewilderment.
"Then you——"