“Now, now, Peekaboos!” called a fondly childing voice. “Naughty! Come back to Mother at once!”
“Mrs. Midgeholme!” whispered the Sergeant.
The look he cast at Hemingway was pregnant with meaning, but he had no time to explain the reason for his patent horror: Mrs. Midgeholme, overpowering in lilac foulard, came out of the drawing-room, and explained: “Oh! It's the police! Well, really! On a Sunday!”
“Good afternoon, madam. This is Chief Inspector Hemingway, from Scotland Yard. And Inspector Harbottle. They wish to see Miss Warrenby, if convenient, please.”
“Scotland Yard!” ejaculated Mrs. Midgeholme, apparently regarding this institution in the light of a Gestapo headquarters. “That poor child!”
“That's all right, madam,” said Hemingway soothingly. “Properly speaking, I only want to have a look through her uncle's papers. There are one or two questions I'd like to ask her, but don't worry! I shan't go upsetting her.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, with an air of noble resolution, “if you must see her, I shall insist on being present! She is alone in the world, and she has had a terrible shock. I refuse to abandon her!”
“And I'm sure it does you credit,” said Hemingway affably. “I've got no objection.” He bent to stroke the elderly Peke, who was sniffing his shoe. “Well, you're a very handsome fellow, aren't you?”
The Peke, his eyes starting angrily, growled at him. However, Hemingway was scratching the exact spot on his back which afforded him the most gratification, so he stopped growling, and faintly waved his plumed tail. This circumstance struck Mrs. Midgeholme forcibly. She exclaimed: “He's taken a fancy to you! Ulysses! He hardly ever allows strangers to touch him! Do you like that kind of policeman, then, my precious? Oh, Untidy! You mustn't let her bother you!”
By this time, the younger Peke, encouraged by the example set her by her grandfather, was effusively making the Chief Inspector welcome. Sergeant Carsethorn heaved an exasperated sigh, but no one could have supposed from Hemingway's demeanour that he had come to Thornden with any other purpose in mind than to admire Mrs. Midgeholme's Pekes. Within a few minutes he and Mrs. Midgeholme were fast friends; and he could have answered an examination-paper on Ulysses's superlatively good points, the number of prizes he had won, and the number of prize-winners he had sired. It was on a wave of good-will that he was finally ushered into the drawing-room. Here, seated in a wing-chair, with her hands folded in her lap, was Mavis Warrenby. Not being one of those who considered no wardrobe complete that did not contain at least one Good Black Frock, she had been unable to array herself in mourning, but had compromised by putting on a very unbecoming dress of slate grey. She got up, as the party entered, and said, casting a somewhat spaniel-like glance at Mrs. Midgeholme: “Oh, what—?”