Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at it.
“Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.”
He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter, two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits.
“Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in these days.”
The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke.
“What year were you up?” he asked.
Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh.
“You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “ ’17 to ’19. St. James’s.”
“Get a blue?”
“Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t get any further in cricket.”