Charles Carrington nodded. “Use your discretion, Superintendent. I expect you've got a lot, hey?”
Hannasyde smiled. “I hope so,” he said. He turned to Giles. “I shall see you tomorrow at the Inquest, shan't I?”
Giles held out his hand. “Yes, I shall be there.”
Hannasyde gripped the hand for a moment, a certain friendly warmth in his eyes. “I'll let you know if anything interesting transpires.”
He went out, and Charles Carrington pushed back his chair from the desk. “Well, well, well!” he said. “Sheer waste of my time, of course, but not unamusing.”
“I've half a mind to ask Kenneth to look for another solicitor,” said Giles ruefully.
His father sat up, and resumed his search amongst the papers on his desk. “Nonsense!” he said briskly. “That boy is either an incorrigibly truthful young ass, or a brilliantly clever actor. He's got your Superintendent Hannasyde guessing, Giles. What's more, he's got you guessing as well. You don't know whether he did it or not.”
“No, I don't. I don't even know whether he'd be capable of doing it. He's a queer fish. Curiously coldblooded.”
“He's capable of it, all right. But whether he did it or not I can't make out. Where the devil are my spectacles?”