There entered a faded rose of a woman on whom Mr. Pogram in his time had evidently made a great impression. A vista of two or three little Pograms behind her was hastily removed by the maid. And they all went into the garden.
“Through here,” said Mr. Pogram, coming to a side door in the garden wall, “we can make a short cut to the police station. As we go along I shall ask you one or two blunt questions.” And he thrust out his under lip:
“For instance, what's your interest in this matter?”
Before Felix could answer, Derek had broken in:
“My uncle has come out of kindness. It's my affair, sir. The man has been tyrannously treated.”
Mr. Pogram cocked his eye. “Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! He's not confessed, I understand?”
“No; but—”
Mr. Pogram laid a finger on his lips.
“Never say die; that's what we're here for. So,” he went on, “you're a rebel; Socialist, perhaps. Dear me! Well, we're all of us something, nowadays—I'm a humanitarian myself. Often say to Mrs. Pogram—humanity's the thing in this age—and so it is! Well, now, what line shall we take?” And he rubbed his hands. “Shall we have a try at once to upset what evidence they've got? We should want a strong alibi. Our friends here will commit if they can—nobody likes arson. I understand he was sleeping in your cottage. His room, now? Was it on the ground floor?”
“Yes; but—”