"You're staying in this house, sir?"
"Yes, but I don't like murders. So inartistic, don't you think? Besides, they don't happen."
"This has happened, sir," said Glass, a little puzzled.
"Yes, that's what upsets me. Murders only occur in other people's families. Not even in one's own circle. Ever noticed that? No, I suppose not. Nothing in one's experience - one had thought it so wide! - has taught one how to cope with such a bizarre situation."
He ended on an uncertain laugh; it was plain that under his flippancy he was shaken. The butler looked at him curiously, and then at Glass, who, after staring at Neville Fletcher for a moment, licked his pencil-point, and asked: "When did you see Mr. Fletcher last, if you please, sir?"
"At dinner. In the dining-room, I mean. No, let us be exact; not the dining-room; the hall."
"Make up your mind, sir," recommended Glass stolidly.
"Yes, that's all right. After dinner he came here, and I wandered off to the billiard-room. We parted in the hall."
"At what hour would that have been, sir?" Neville shook his head. "I don't know. After dinner. Do you know, Simmons?"
"I couldn't say, sir, not precisely. The master was usually out of the dining-room by ten to nine." "And after that you didn't see Mr. Fletcher again?"