He met her look with a flickering smile, and lifted his hand. "Oh, no! This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood."
"Round of applause from the gallery. But quotations prove nothing. You could have done it, Neville."
"Oh, but why stop at me? Perhaps Aunty Lucy did it, with one of her Indian clubs. I believe she wields them with considerable vigour."
"Don't be silly. Why should she?"
"Heaven knows. If you don't fancy her, what about Simmons?"
"Again why?"
"And again, Heaven knows. Why leave all the brainwork to me? You think."
"Yes, well, I see very little point in thinking out fantastic motives for Miss Fletcher and Simmons while you're right under my nose, complete with a motive I don't have to hunt for."
He looked bored. "Well, if you're going to make me the favourite, I shall lose all interest. The crime becomes at once pedestrian and commonplace. Oh, here's my poor aunt! Come and help us to solve the mystery, Aunt Lucy. My theory is that you did it."
Miss Fletcher, who had entered the drawing-room, came over to the window, but said in a voice of shocked indignation: "I'm sure I don't know where you get your dreadful tongue from, Neville. It certainly wasn't from your dear father. I know it is only thoughtlessness, but the things you say are in the very worst of bad taste. And you haven't even bought an armband!"