“I s-said it was a Quesaco,” replied Horatia, between tears and laughter. “And that’s Provençal signifying “What does it mean?” “
“Well, what does it mean?” asked the Viscount reasonably.
“Oh, P-Pel, I don’t know! Do, do, take me home!”
The Viscount permitted himself to be drawn onward. They traversed Curzon Street without mishap, and Sir Roland remarked that it was a fine night. Neither the Viscount nor his sister paid any heed to this. The Viscount, who had been thinking, said: “I don’t say it ain’t a good thing if you’ve killed Lethbridge, but what I can’t make out is what brought you here at this time of night?”
Horatia, feeling that in his present condition it was useless to attempt to explain to him, replied: “I went to the p-party at Richmond House.”
“And was it agreeable, ma’am?” inquired Sir Roland politely.
“Yes, th-thank you.”
“But Richmond House ain’t in Half-Moon Street,” the Viscount pointed out.
“She walked home,” explained Sir Roland. “We were walking home, weren’t we? Very well, then. She walked home. Passed Lethbridge’s house. Went in. Hit him on the head with the poker. Came out. Met us in the street. There you are. Plain as a pikestaff.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Viscount. “Seems queer to me.”