"No, sir, very good," Bowers said, and resigned himself to his fate.
But the look that Mr. Fripp cast on Charles' vanishing form was one of something bordering on acute dislike.
In the dining-room Charles was greeted by a demand from his wife to explain what on earth was the matter with him.
"If," said Charles, resuming his seat, "you would occasionally employ your brain, dear love, you might realise that the last thing we desire is a stranger let loose in the house. Oh, and if anyone wants any pudding he or she will have to get it for themselves, as Bowers is otherwise engaged."
"It's on the sideboard," Celia said. "But really, Chas, I don't quite see what harm a man selling a vacuumcleaner can do. And I asked him for his card, just to be on the safe side."
"Was it our friend at the Bell?" Peter asked.
"It was. I am happy to think that I've given him a nice, solid afternoon's work." He inspected Mr. Fripp's card again. "Yes. I think this is where one calls for a little outside assistance."
Celia pricked up her ears. "Not Flinders again!" she begged.
"No, not Flinders," Charles said. "I should be loth to interrupt his entomological studies. But I feel a few discreet inquiries might be put through."
"If you're going to call in Scotland Yard, I for one object," Peter said. "We've no data for them, and they'll merely think us credulous asses."