“No,” I said, “I am not a detective, certainly not. And I am not a great anything, unless it be a great liar. I have had a little practice at that just lately.”
“But that is why auntie has sent for you,” she added, with a puzzled frown.
“Because I am a great liar?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, quite seriously. “Because you—because she thinks that you—somebody told her you were a great detective.”
“Oh, yes, and why does she need the services of a—er—a detective?” I demanded.
“She wants you to find out who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon.”
“I see. And do you want me to discover that?”
“Of course, but I don’t think you can.”
“If you thought I could, you wouldn’t want me to try—is that it?”
“No—oh, I don’t know what you mean.”