“It’s quite safe, I suppose?”
“Safe? Safe? What do you mean?”
“When I saw you poking at it with that paper knife I thought it might be poisoned.”
Thormanby growled and I took up the letter. Lalage has a courteous but perfectly lucid style. I read:
“Dear Lord Thormanby, as a member of the Diocesan Synod you are, I feel sure, quite as anxious as I am that only a really suitable man should be elected bishop. I therefore enclose a carefully drawn list of the necessary and desirable qualifications for that office.”
“You have the list?” I said.
“Yes. She sent the thing. She has cheek enough for anything.”
“Selby-Harrison drew it up, so if there’s anything objectionable in it he’s the person you ought to blame, not Lalage.”
I felt that I was keeping my promise to Miss Battersby. I had succeeded in implicating another culprit. Not more than half the blame was now Lalage’s.
“The sine qua nons,” the letter went on, “are marked with red crosses, the desiderata in black.”