Then, taking the order backward:
“Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger in S. may do your worst.”
“Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not for the first time, out of evil comes good.”
“A prig.”
“Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence.”
These were all on one page.
“Quite clearly a précis of Grant’s remarks when Siddle called on Monday,” said Winter.
At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely nodded.
“Stops in a queer way,” he muttered. “Not a word about the inquest or the missing bottles.”
The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which, nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris’s spirited words on the Sunday afternoon.
“Malice and ignorance.”
“Patient because of years.”
“Loyal comrade. Shall remain.”
“Code.”
“No difference in friendship.”
“E. hopeless. Contempt.”
“Skipping—good.”
On the next page:
“Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire.”
“E.’s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!”
“Why has D. gone?”
Both men paused at that line.
“Detective?” suggested Winter.