"But things have gone horribly wrong all day—after a highly promising start, too. I don't see that we are any nearer laying hands on a murderer because we have unearthed various little scandals in the lives of Mortimer Fenley's sons. And what game are you playing with this artist, Trenholme?"
"The supremely interesting problem just now is the game which he is playing with Robert Fenley. If that young ass attacks him he'll get the licking he wants, and if you're in any doubt about my pronouns——"
"Oh, dash you and your pronouns! Here's Tomlinson. Quick! Have you a plan of any sort?"
"Three! Three separate lines of attack, each deadly. But there are folk whose mental equipment renders them incapable of understanding plain English. Now, my friend Tomlinson will show you what I mean. I'll ask him a simple question, and he will give you a perfect example of a direct answer. Tomlinson, can you tell me what the extrados of a voussoir is?"
"No, Mr. Furneaux, I can not," said the butler, smiling at what he regarded as the little man's humor.
"There!" cried Furneaux delightedly. "Ain't I a prophet? No evasions about Tomlinson, are there?"
"I think you're cracked," growled Winter, picking up his suitcase. "If I'm to stay here tonight, I shall want a room of some sort. Mr. Tomlinson, can you——"
"Share mine," broke in Furneaux. "I'm the quietest sleeper living. Our friend here is sure to have at disposal a room with two beds in it."
"The principal guest room is unoccupied," said the butler.
"Where is it?"