“What do you make of Wraxall?” Westenhanger demanded, abruptly.
“Decent soul, I thought. Backed us up well in the matter of sitting on Freddie.”
Westenhanger made no comment. Douglas let him smoke in silence for a while before inquiring:
“What do you think?”
“Wraxall was the only one of you who had a complete story ready to account for all his doings during the night. That’s my impression about Wraxall, Douglas.”
Chapter VII
Cynthia Pennard moved slightly to avoid a spot of light which had crept across the cushions of her hammock until it reached her face.
“Douglas,” she said, lazily, “has a hippopotamus got a tougher hide than a rhinoceros? I’d like to know.”
“I’ve heard them both well spoken of—highly commended, in fact. I’d hate to draw an invidious distinction and cause trouble at the Zoo. But why this lust for general information? It’s not like you.”
Following her glance across the broad lawn, Douglas caught sight of Freddie Stickney sitting on the grass beside Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s garden-chair. Cynthia turned her head again.