"Overflowing scourge. I do think the Superintendent ought to have told you."
The Sergeant thought so too, but remarked repressively that the Superintendent had something better to think about.
"Not something better. His mind was preoccupied with my possible but improbable guilt. I think yours is too, which upsets me rather, because I thought we were practically blood-brothers. On account of Malachi. Why hats?" His sleepy eyes scanned the Sergeant's face. "Tell me when I'm getting warm. My ill-fated journey to London. Black felt. And Ernie's collection. Oh, did I borrow one of Ernie's hats?"
The Sergeant thought it best to meet frankness with frankness. "Well, did you, sir?"
Neville gave a joyous gurgle, and took the Sergeant by the hand. "Come with me. Do policemen lead drab lives? I will lighten yours, at least."
"Here, sir, what's all this about?" protested the Sergeant, dragged irresistibly to the door.
"Establishing my innocence. You may not want me to, but you oughtn't to let that appear."
"It's a great mistake to get any silly idea into your head that the police want to arrest an innocent man," said the Sergeant severely. He found himself being conducted up the shallow stairs, and protested: "I don't know what you're playing at, but you might remember I've got work to do, sir."
Neville opened the door into an apartment furnished in heavy mahogany. "My uncle's dressing-room. Not, so far, haunted, so don't be frightened."
"To my way of thinking," said the Sergeant, "the things you say aren't decent."