“What’s wrong?” stormed the horse-dealer. “Why, everything’s wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!”
“Ay! Sweetbreads an’ saddle o’ lamb,” interjected Hobbs with the air of one imparting a secret.
Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs.
“What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter,” he said shrilly. “That poor woman’s body leaves here to-morrow for some cemetery in London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!”
A sort of awe fell on the company. None of the others had as yet put the two events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddle stifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no one could gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion was with him, and drove the point home.
“Hobson—the local joiner and undertaker”—he explained for Mr. Franklin’s benefit—“came this morning to borrow a couple of horses for the job. It’s to be done in style—‘no expense spared’ was Mr. Ingerman’s order—and the poor thing is in her coffin now while Grant—”
He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed.
“You’ve said enough, Elkin,” murmured the chemist. “This excitement is harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours, dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton’s mixture regularly. He has changed it, I noticed.”
“Bed! Me! Not likely. I’m going to kick up a row. What are the police doing? A set of blooming old women, that’s what they are. But I’ll stir ’em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, “I cannot help taking a certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger to all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. Grant, I understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the past three years. None of the others now in his house had met her at all. Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these conditions, dining-out would become a lost art.”