Mr. Haswell, having by this time observed that a guest was present, shook hands with Abby, favouring her with an appraising look, which rather surprised her, since she was well acquainted with him and quite unaccustomed to exciting more interest in him than he felt for any of his son's young friends, all of whom he received in an uncritical and incurious spirit. Fortunately for her self-possession she did not know that this keen scrutiny was due to certain mysterious words uttered by Mrs. Haswell into his private ear on the previous evening. He was a well-built man, with a square, rather impassive countenance, and a taciturn disposition; and although he was a pleasant host, and accepted with perfect equanimity all the young people who invaded his house, and danced to the radio, or argued loudly and interminably on such subjects as Surrealist art, Anglo-Soviet Relations, and The Ballet, most of Charles's friends stood in considerable awe of him. Appealed to now by Sampson Warrenby, he replied calmly: “Certainly not,” and poured himself out a glass of sherry.
“Well, that's Abby's theory. I think it's possible, but my own bet is that it was Mavis. What's your view, Dad?”
“That you'd both of you do better to leave it to the police, and not talk quite so much about it,” replied his father.
Abby, who had been very well brought-up, would have abandoned the entrancing topic at once, but Charles, though extremely fond of his parents, naturally held them in no exaggerated respect. He said: “You know perfectly well we're bound to talk about it. It's quite the most interesting thing that's ever befallen Thornden.”
“Oh, Mr. Haswell!” said Abby, feeling that Charles had broken the ice, “there's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, and we actually talked to him, at the Red Lion!”
“Did you indeed?” he said, smiling faintly. “That must have been a thrill for you! I hope you didn't tell him what your theories are?”
“No, we were madly discreet,” she assured him.
“I didn't have to tell him my theory,” said Charles. “Gavin did that for me. Oh, I say, Mummy, do you know what became of my old .22, by any chance? The one Daddy got for me when I was at school?”
“Do you mean the one you used to shoot rabbits with, darling? Yes, I lent it to old Newbiggin's grandson: the one with the extraordinary ears, who was so helpful that time Woodhorn was ill, and I couldn't get the car to start.”
“Good lord! Did he bring it back?”