“I know you do, but according to Giles you won't believe a word of my story,” replied Kenneth. “My point is that you can't disprove it. If you've got any sense you won't try. You'll simply arrest my sister, and be done with it. I call her behaviour fishy in the extreme. Moreover, any girl who gets engaged to a human wen like Mesurier deserves to be hanged. What did you make of him, Giles?”
“I hardly know him. Try to stick to the point.”
“Well, I think he's a blister,” said Kenneth frankly. Hannasyde said patiently: “May I hear this story which I can't disprove.”
“Sorry, I'd forgotten you for the moment,” said Kenneth, and seating himself on a corner of the desk which happened to be free from litter, related with unexpected conciseness the history of his movements on Saturday. “And that's that,” he concluded, delving in his pocket for an evil-looking meerschaum. “My fiancée says it's such a rotten story you're bound to believe it. She ought to know. She reads about seven detective thrillers a week, so she's pretty well up on crime.”
Hannasyde looked at him rather searchingly. “You don't remember the picture-theatre you visited or even what street it is in, or what the the film was about, Mr Vereker?”
“No,” said Kenneth, unrolling an oilskin tobacco pouch, and beginning, under his uncle's fermenting stare, to fill the meerschaum.
“That argues a singularly bad memory, doesn't it?”
“Vile,” agreed Kenneth. “But anyone'll tell you I've no memory.”
“I'm surprised that with such a memory you are able to tell me so exactly what you did that evening,” said Hannasyde gently.
“Oh, I learned that off by heart,” replied Kenneth, putting his pipe in his mouth, and restoring the pouch to his pocket.