“Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, Robinson. That little London ’tec has bunked home.”
“Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for an opening.
“Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt’s neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much that’s going on. Bet you half a thick ’un you’d have put someone in clink before this if the murder at The Hollies had been left in your hands.”
“That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?”
“Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.”
“You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were in bed regular at 10.15.”
“That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at Knoleworth.”
“What time did you reach home?”
“Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what’s this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?”
“Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic he wanted to discuss.