The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly.
“Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means no ’arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ night?”
Elkin laughed, with his queer croak.
“If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what they’re driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is that this chap, Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to. That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?”
“Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the lady’s point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. ‘Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.”
“Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?”
Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher.
“What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?” he retorted.
Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin.
“Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed.