“Ah, good morning, Mr. Holt,” Pepster cried, as I joined him. “How is Cartordale using you these times? Have you settled down amongst us?”
“More or less,” I replied. “This place rather improves on acquaintance. I think I would like to see a summer here.”
“Yes, it’s all right in the summer, if the summer is all right,” Pepster rejoined dryly. “But our summer isn’t much to rave over. It doesn’t last long enough.”
“No, that’s true. And how is the mystery getting on?”
“The mystery?” Pepster echoed. “Oh, you mean the murder. It isn’t getting on. I was just coming along to see you.”
“To see me!” I cried.
“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you,” he returned, with a soft chuckle. “No, not at all. But do you know Kelham, of Scotland Yard? I had a letter from him to-day. ‘Dennis Holt is living in your neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Ask him who murdered Clevedon.’ Now, what does he mean by that?”
“Kelham—yes, I know Kelham very well,” I replied. “He is a humorist.”
“Well, I wish he’d let me in on the joke, anyway,” Pepster said discontentedly. “Do you know who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“No,” I said, “not yet. For that matter, I don’t even know that he was murdered. But I shall find out, and then I’ll let you know.”