The Hon. Sidney Lomas, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, disguised as a bloodthirsty fisherman, arrived stiffly but happy, and behind him a large Norwegian bore the corpses of two salmon into the farm-house. “The lord high detective,” Reggie murmured. “An allegorical picture, by the late Mr. Watts.”
“Great days,” Lomas said, and let himself down gingerly into a chair. “Hallo, has there been a post?” He reached for one of the papers at Reggie’s feet. “My country, what of thee?”
“They’re at it again, Lomas. They’ve murdered a real live lord.”
“Thank heaven I’m not there. Who is it?”
“One Carwell. In the wilds of the Midlands.”
“Young Carwell? He’s a blameless youth to slay. What happened?”
“They found him in his library with his head smashed. Queer case.”
Lomas read the report, which had nothing more to tell. “Burglary, I suppose,” he pronounced.
“Well, I have an alibi,” said Reggie.
Neither the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department nor his scientific adviser saw any reason to end a good holiday for the sake of avenging Lord Carwell. The policemen who dealt with the affair did not call for help. Mr. Fortune and Mr. Lomas continued to catch the salmon and eat the strawberries of Norway and let the world go by and became happily out of date. It was not till they were on the North Sea that they met the Carwell case again.