He followed Billie in a docile manner out through the front door, and they made their way to the garage at the back of the house, both silent. The only difference between their respective silences was that Billie’s was thoughtful, while Bream’s was just the silence of a man who has unhitched his brain and is getting along as well as he can without it.
In the hall they had left, Jane Hubbard once more took command of affairs.
“Well, that’s something done,” she said, scratching Smith’s broad back with the muzzle of her weapon. “Something accomplished, something done, has earned a night’s repose. Not that we’re going to get it yet. I think those fellows are hiding somewhere, and we ought to search the house and rout them out. It’s a pity Smith isn’t a bloodhound. He’s a good cake-hound, but as a watch-dog he doesn’t finish in the first ten.”
The cake-hound, charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet like a young elephant.
“The first thing to do,” continued Jane, “is to go through the ground-floor rooms....” She paused to strike a match against the suit of armour nearest to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry of protest from Mrs. Hignett, and lit a cigarette. “I’ll go first, as I’ve got a gun....” She blew a cloud of smoke. “I shall want somebody with me to carry a light, and....”
“Tchoo!”
“What?” said Jane.
“I didn’t speak,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Who am I to speak?” he went on bitterly. “Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anything sensible to suggest?”
“Somebody spoke,” said Jane. “I....”
“Achoo!”