“A poor crime, but her own,” Captain Cosdon chuckled. “It’s no good, Mrs. Beach. It don’t appeal to the master mind.”
“You know, Fortune, it’s devilish awkward,” the Colonel protested.
“I’m sorry. But what can we do? You might call up your village policeman. He’s four miles off, and I dare say he needs exercise. You might telephone to Thorton and say you have been burgled, and will they please watch some road or other for some one or other with a bag of silver and a set of cameos and a ruby brooch. It doesn’t sound helpful, does it?”
“It sounds damned silly.”
“But I thought you’d find clues, Mr. Fortune,” Alice Beach cried, “all sorts of clues, finger-prints and foot-prints and——”
“And tell us the crime was done by a retired sergeant-cook with pink hair and a cast in the eye,” Cosdon grinned.
“You see, I’ve no imagination,” said Reggie, sadly.
“Confound you, Cosdon, it isn’t a joke,” Colonel Beach cried.
“No, I don’t think it’s a joke,” Reggie agreed.
“One of your perfect crimes, Mr. Fortune?”