“I do not.”
The reply was so emphatic that it created further merriment.
“Well, tell me quickly what this new secret is,” exclaimed Mrs. Eastham, “because in five minutes I must have a long talk with my cook. She has to prepare pies and pastry sufficient to feed nearly a hundred school children next Monday, and it is a matter of much calculation.”
Brett took his leave.
“I knew that good old soul would be tactful,” he said to himself. “Now I wonder how Winter made such a colossal mistake as to imagine that Hume murdered his cousin. He was sure of the affections of a delightful girl; he could not succeed to the property; he has declined to take up the title. What reason could he have for committing such a crime?”
Then a man walked up the road—a man dressed like a farmer or grazier, rotund, strongly-built, cheerful-looking. He halted opposite Mrs. Eastham’s house, where the barrister still stood drawing on his gloves on the doorstep.
“Yes,” said Brett aloud, “you are an egregious ass, Winter.”
“Why, Mr. Brett?” asked the unabashed detective. “Isn’t the make-up good?”
“It is the make-up that always leads you astray. You never theorise above the level of the Police Gazette.”
Mr. Winter yielded to not unnatural annoyance. With habitual caution, he glanced around to assure himself that no other person was within earshot; then he said vehemently: