“My telegram?” Cheyne queried sharply. “What telegram do you mean?”
“Why, your telegram about Mr. Ackfield, of course,” his mother answered with some petulance. “What other telegram could it be? It did not give us much time, but—”
“But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no telegram.”
Agatha made a sudden gesture.
“There!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What did I say? When we came home and learned what had happened and thought of your not turning up,” she glanced at her brother, “I said it was only a blind. It was sent to get us away from the house!”
Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. What he had half expected had evidently taken place.
“Dear people,” he protested, “this is worse than getting blood from a stone. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was that?”
“What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?”
“Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately after the ring.”
“Good,” said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a cross-examining K.C. “And what was in the telegram?”