"That's Mr. Frank Amberley, Sir Humphrey's nephew," said the sergeant. "He's a very clever young man, that's what he is."
"Walks in here as bold as brass talking about dead men on the road like as if they was as common as dandelions," said the disapproving constable.
"So they are to him," replied the sergeant severely. "If you ever read the papers, my lad, you'd know all about him. He's a barrister. Going a long way, he is, by all accounts."
"Well, he can't go too far for me," said the constable. "I don't like him, Sergeant, and that's a fact."
"You send Harper in to me and stop mooning around the place," commanded the sergeant. "There's plenty don't like Mr. Amberley, but that isn't going to bother him."
Meanwhile Frank Amberley's car had shot off in the direction of the High Street. From Upper Nettlefold he had no doubt of his way and he reached Greythorne, a substantial stone house standing in grounds that ran down to the river Nettle, in little more than ten minutes.
He was met in the hall by his cousin, a mischievous damsel of eighteen, who demanded to know what had happened to him.
He pulled off his coat and cast Miss Matthews a withering glance. "Your short way," he said scathingly.
Felicity giggled. "You are an ass, Frank. Did you get lost?"
"Very." He turned as his aunt came out into the hall. "Sorry, Aunt Marion. Not my fault. Am I too late for dinner?"