“Travelled up with her?”
“From Matlock Bath. What’s the matter with you all?” demanded the Poet. “You all of you look—”
“Sit down,” said the Briefless one to the Poet. “Let’s talk this matter over quietly.”
Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down.
“You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?”
“Sure!” retorted the Poet. “Why, I’ve known her ever since she was a baby.”
“About what time did you reach London?”
“Three-thirty.”
“And what became of her? Where did she say she was going?”
“I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and was—I say, what’s the matter with Herring?”