Gavin looked at him, a glint in his eyes. “Now, why are you suddenly in a hurry to go away?” he wondered. “Can it be—can it possibly be—that you were telling the Chief Inspector something damaging about me?” He watched a dull red creep into the Major's cheeks, and laughed. “Splendid! What was it? Or would you prefer not to tell me?”
It was patent that the Major would very much have preferred not to tell him, but he was an officer and a gentleman, and he was not going to turn and run in the face of fire. He said boldly: “Seems to me that you've done so much talking yourself about people that you can't very well object if the tables are turned.”
“Of course I don't object!” said Gavin cordially. “I merely hope that you've dug up something good about me.”
“I haven't dug up anything. Not my business to pry into your affairs! And if you want to know what's been sticking in my mind, it's this!—Why did you tell me that Warrenby had never crossed your threshold?”
“Did I?” said Gavin, faintly surprised.
“You know damned well you did!”
“I don't. It's quite possible, of course, and I shouldn't dream of denying it, but when did I make this momentous statement?”
“You said it to Drybeck and to me when we were walking up Wood Lane on Saturday. You said that yours was the only threshold he couldn't cross.”
“I spoke no less than the truth, then. Yes, I remember: our Thaddeus wasn't a bit pleased, was he? But what is this leading up to?”
“That won't wash, Plenmeller!” said the Major, gaining assurance with indignation. “Warrenby had crossed your threshold that very morning!”