“Still, Lord Carwell was killed,” said Lomas gently, “and somebody killed him. Who was it?”
“Not Mark. He hasn’t got it in him, I suppose he never hit a fellow who couldn’t hit back in his life.”
“But surely,” Lomas purred, “if there was a quarrel, Lord Carwell might——”
“Hugo was a weed,” Sir Brian pronounced. “Mark never touched him, my friend.”
“Yes, yes, very natural you should think so,” Lomas shifted his papers. “Of course you won’t expect me to say anything, Sir Brian. And what exactly is it you want me to do?”
Sir Brian laughed. “My dear sir, it’s not for me to tell you your duty. I put it to you that a man has disappeared, and that his disappearance makes hay of the case on which the Crown convicted a cousin of mine of murder. What you do about it is your affair.”
“You may rely upon it, Sir Brian,” said Lomas in his most official manner, “the affair will be thoroughly investigated.”
“I expected no less, Mr. Lomas.” And Sir Brian ceremoniously but briskly took his leave.
After which, “Good Gad!” said Lomas again, and stared at Reggie Fortune.
“Nice restful companion, isn’t he? Yes. The sort of fellow that has made Old England great.”