Stella pushed his hand away. “No, thanks!”
He was still smiling. “How you hate me, don't you?” he murmured. “And Guy? How are you, little cousin?”
Guy, who did not relish this form of address, glowered at him.
Mrs Lupton, still rigid with wrath at the edged compliment paid her, said sharply: “I presume you have heard the news of your uncle's death?”
“Oh yes!” said Randall. “You will notice that I am wearing an armband. I always like to observe the conventions. And which of you,” he inquired, looking amiably round, “is responsible for dear uncle's death? Or don't you know?”
This airy question produced a feeling of tension, which was possibly Randall's object. Mrs Lupton said: “That is not amusing nor is this a time for jokes in bad taste.”
Randall opened his eyes at her. “Dear aunt, did you think I was joking?”
“If uncle was poisoned, which I don't believe he was for an instant,” said Stella, “you had a bigger motive for killing him than anyone else!”
Randall took a cigarette out of his thin gold case, and lit it in a leisurely way. “True, my pet, very true, but you mustn't forget that I was several miles distant when he died. And while I am on the subject may I ask who was responsible for starting this canard that uncle was poisoned?”
“I was responsible for the post-mortem,” replied Mrs Lupton.