Superintendent Hannasyde was not a man to show surprise readily, but this ingenuous explanation bereft him momentarily of speech. Giles's slow voice filled the gap: “Don't try to be funny, I implore you. What do you mean?”
Charles Carrington, whose attention had been successfully switched from the meerschaum, watched Kenneth with an air of impersonal interest. “Yes, what do you mean?” he inquired.
“Just what I said,” responded Kenneth, striking a match. Between puffs, he continued, “After Giles had gone, last night, it dawned I me that I'd better make sure I didn't forget what I did on Saturday. So I wrote it all down, and learned it by heart in case I lost the book of words.”
The Superintendent, recovering, put rather a stern question: “Do you remember anything at all of what you did, Mr Vereker, or are you merely favouring me with a recitation?”
“Of course I remember,” said Kenneth impatiently. “You can't go on repeating a saga without remembering it. If you mean, Did I make it up? Certainly not! I should have thought out a much better story than that. Something really classy. As a matter of fact, my sister and I concocted a beauty, but we decided against using it, because of the mental strain. If you make a thing up you keep forgetting some of the ramifications, and then you're in the soup.”
“I'm glad you realise that,” said Hannasyde dryly. “Will your memory go back as far as the third of June?”
“What's today? asked Kenneth, willing to oblige, but cautious.
“Today, Mr Vereker, is the nineteenth of June.”
“Then I shouldn't think it would. It all depends. Not if you're going to ask me what I had for breakfast that day, or whether I went out for a walk, or-”
“I am going to ask you whether you remember writing a letter to your half-brother, requesting him to give or lend you five hundred pounds.”