“A red-letter day,” remarked Randall, pouring the brandy gently into two big glasses. “Superintendent Hannasyde for the first time accepts refreshment under my roof.”
Hannasyde took the glass, and said: “Yes. But I believe it is also a red-letter day in that you are going—at last—to tell me what, up till now, you have been so busily concealing.”
“Cigars at your elbow,” murmured Randall. “It is a thoroughly nauseating affair, Superintendent, and I may mention in passing that my thoughts of my deceased Aunt Harriet are not loving ones.” He sipped his brandy. “Do you want me to remember that you are a member of the C.I.D., or would you like me to tell you the unvarnished truth?”
“The unvarnished truth, please.”
“Yes, I daresay,” Randall drawled. “But it will have to be without prejudice, Superintendent.”
Hannasyde hesitated. “I can't promise anything, but I'm out to solve a murder-case, not to bring a charge against you for getting hold of Hyde's papers by using a false name and a pair of sun-glasses.”
“It would be rather paltry, wouldn't it?” agreed Randall.
“Worse than that. I rather think you may have been within your rights when you took possession of those papers.”
Randall looked pensively down at him. “Now, when did you tumble to that, Superintendent?” he asked.
“When your cousin told me that you were going to give away all your uncle's money, Mr Matthews.”