"No," said Glass uncompromisingly.
"The master had friends who used to visit him that way." Simmons heaved a sigh. "Women, Mr. Glass."
"Thine habitation," said Glass, with a condemnatory glance round the comfortable room, "is in the midst of deceit."
"That's true, Mr. Glass. The times I've wrestled in prayer -'
The opening of the door interrupted him. Neither he nor Glass had heard footsteps approaching the study, and neither had time to prevent the entrance into the room of a willowy young man in an ill-fitting dinner jacket suit, who paused on the threshold, blinked longlashed eyelids at the sight of a policeman, and smiled deprecatingly.
"Oh, sorry!" said the newcomer. "Fancy finding you here!"
His voice was low-pitched, and he spoke softly and rather quickly, so that it was difficult to catch what he said. A lock of lank dark hair fell over his brow; he wore a pleated shirt, and a deplorable tie, and looked, to PC Glass, like a poet.
His murmured exclamation puzzled Glass. He said suspiciously: "Fancy meeting me, eh? So you know me, do you, sir?"
"Oh no!" said the young man. His fluttering glance went round the room and discovered the body of Ernest Fletcher. His hand left the door-knob; he walked forward to the desk, and turned rather pale. "I should shame my manhood if I were sick, shouldn't I? I wonder what one does now?" His gaze asked inspiration of Glass, of Simmons, and encountered only blank stares. It found the tray Simmons had brought into the room. "Yes, that's what one does," he said, and went to the tray, and poured himself out a stiff, short drink of whisky-and-soda.
"The master's nephew - Mr. Neville Fletcher," said Simmons, answering the question in Glass's eye.