“I never feel that way about anything on wheels,” he said. “Do you really think you will be able to clear up this affair, sir? It seems to me to be a bigger muddle now than when I left it after the second trial. Don’t laugh at me. That is awkwardly put, I know. But then we had a straightforward crime to deal with. Now, goodness knows where we have landed.”
Smith entered, and commenced laying the table. Brett did not reply to the detective’s spoken reverie. Both men idly watched the deft servant’s preparations.
“Smith,” suddenly cried the master of the household, “what sort of chicken have we for dinner?”
“Cold chicken, sir.”
“Thank you. As you seem to demand Miltonic precision in phrase, I amend my words. What breed of chicken have we for dinner?”
“A dorking, sir.”
“And how do you know it is a dorking?”
“Oh, there’s lots of ways of knowin’ that, sir. You can tell by the size, by its head and feet, and by the tuft of feathers left on its neck.”
“Q.E.D.”
“Beg pardon, sir!”