"In a lame way. I am certain that you know nothing about the murder, Ferdy, as you were locked in and--"
"How dare you? how dare you?" burst out the young man, furiously red and angry. "Even to hint at such things is an insult to me. I am not a saint; all the same, I am not a devil."
"Don't excite yourself, Ferdy. We know that Osip is guilty, and that no blame attaches to you. But I fail to see why Zara should have made that observation to you."
"Go and ask her," snapped Ferdy, rudely.
"I don't speak to persons of that sort," said Clarice, icily.
"She's a good, decent, pretty, hard-working girl."
"What an array of adjectives. I never said that she was not. All I wish to know--and my desire to know is suggested by the chance observation I overheard--is, are you acquainted with Osip, or are you in any way influenced by Osip?"
"I am not. How dare you suggest such a silly thing? As to Uncle Henry having been at the Shah's Rooms; that's sheer rubbish."
Clarice walked thoughtfully to the window. "I dare say I am worrying myself unnecessarily," she observed. "There is no mystery about Uncle Henry's death, and Anthony may have made a mistake. But you do make me anxious, Ferdy, dear, with your wild ways. You are so unsophisticated, that I fear lest you should be led astray."
"I'm quite able to look after myself," fumed the young man, again producing his cigarette case, that unfailing resource in embarrassment.