“You’ve said it,” said the policeman.
“I’ve said what?” said Mr. Trevor.
“Death,” said the policeman.
“Oh, death!” said Mr. Trevor. “I always say ‘death,’ constable. It’s my favourite word.”
“Ghoulish, I calls it, sir. Ghoulish, no less.”
“That entirely depends,” said Mr. Trevor, “on what you are talking about. In some things, ghoulish is as ghoulish does. In others, no.”
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “But ghoulish goes, in this ’ere affair. One after the other lying in their own blood, and not a sign as to who’s done it, not a sign!”
“Oh, come, constable! Tut-tut! Not even a thumb-mark in the blood?”
“I’m telling you,” said the policeman severely. “Corpses slit to ribbons all the way from ’Ampstead ’Eath to this ’ere Berkeley Square. And why? That’s what I asks myself. And why?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Trevor gaily, “there certainly have been a lot of murders lately. Ha-ha! But not, surely, as many as all that!”