“That’s nice,” the little Jew lisped. “Now you know some fellow will ask you—don’t you tell me if you don’t want—did you murder Albert Lunt?”
“I did not, sir.”
The little Jew rubbed his hands. “That’s nice, ain’t it, doctor? That gives us a free hand.” He got up. “Well, doctor, any questions?”
“I wonder what coat you were wearing, Mr. Cranford?” Reggie said.
“Coat? Brown raincoat. Devilish cold it was too. Only coat I’ve got. I’ve not had time to fit out for an English spring.”
“Quite. We’ll carry on, then.” Reggie got up too. “It’s shaping all right, Mr. Cranford. Shouldn’t worry.”
“Not me. Tell Miss Dauntsey,” Cranford said.
Outside in their car, “What’s the verdict, doctor?” Gordon said.
“He’s telling the truth,” Reggie said.
“Fancy!” And they became technical.