"I agree with you, sir. At this time of the day a Sauterne or a Johannisberger——"
"To my taste, a Château Yquem, with that delicate flavor which leaves the palate fresh—Frenchmen call it the sève——"
"Sir, I perceive that you have a taste. Singularly enough, I have a bottle of Château Yquem in my sideboard."
So the meal was a success.
An under gardener lent Furneaux a bicycle. After a chat with Farrow, to whom he conveyed some sandwiches and a bottle of beer, the detective rode to Easton. He sent a rather long telegram to his own quarters, called at a chemist's, and reached the White Horse at Roxton about two o'clock.
Now the imp of mischance had contrived that John Trenholme should hear no word of the murder until he came downstairs for luncheon after a morning's steady work.
The stout Eliza, fearful lest Mary should forestall her with the news, bounced out from the kitchen when his step sounded on the stairs.
"There was fine goin's on in the park this morning, Mr. Trenholme," she began breathlessly.
He reddened at once, and avoided her fiery eye. Of course, it had been discovered that he had watched that girl bathing. Dash it all, his action was unintentional! What a bore!