"High cockalorum, snip snap snorum," was the jocular and enigmatic reply, "come to my bedroom, and we can chatter while I dress."
"Well," said Prelice as he sauntered after his friend, "I am glad that you are not going in that rigout. It isn't the fifth of November."
"Silly ass," snapped the traveller; "get a dressed-up doll to help you."
"All right. Come to a toy-shop and help me to choose one."
Dr. Horace began to laugh. "Why can't you talk sense?" he growled.
"I shall do so if you will set the example."
"Very good. I have some of the Sacred Herb here. Shall I take it to the New Bailey, and give judge and jury and counsel a practical illustration of how Miss Chent and Shepworth went into trances?"
"You can if you like. By the way, did you give any portion of that herb away, Horace?"
The doctor, who was plunging his hairy face in water, gurgled and grumbled, but made no reply. Prelice was nettled. "Why can't you be plain with me, confound you?"
"All right." Horace began to dry his face vigorously. "I don't believe that Miss Chent is guilty, or that Shepworth killed Agstone."