Then he laughed. Peters’s keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare at the negro’s head in meerschaum.
“You’ve bothered me,” he went on. “I thought you had more sense. Don’t you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?”
“The man’s visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just blurted out the facts.”
“Well, you’ve rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely indispensable now.”
Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the scent of Winter’s red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line.
“May I—” they both broke in simultaneously.
“Place to the fourth estate,” bowed Hart solemnly.
“Thanks,” said the journalist. “May I put a question, Winter?”
“A score, if you like.”
“Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?”