"Dear Aunt," said Charles frankly, "not one of you would have deceived an oyster."
Peter came back into the room. "You seem to be getting very thick with Strange," he said to his sister. "Did you happen to find out what he is, or anything about him?"
"He's a surveyor," said Charles, finishing what was left of his whisky and soda.
"A surveyor?" echoed Margaret. "How do you know? Did he tell you so?"
"To the deductive mind," said Charles airily, "his profession was obvious from his knowledge of the probable whereabouts of our cesspool."
"Ass!" said Celia. "Come on up to bed. What does it matter what he is? He's nice, that's all I know."
It was two hours later when Charles came downstairs again, and he had changed into a tweed suit, and was wearing rubber-soled shoes. Peter was already in the library, reading by the light of one lamp. He looked up as Charles came in. "Celia asleep?" he asked.
"She was when I left her; but I've trod on nineteen creaking boards since then. Have you been round the house?"
"I have, and I defy anyone to get in without us hearing."
Charles went across to draw the heavy curtains still more closely together over the windows. "If Strange really means to try and get in to-night, he won't risk it for another hour or two," he prophesied. "Hanged if I can make that fellow out!"