“Looks like blood,” said Atkinson Brown, giving an uneasy guffaw. “Suppose there hasn’t been a murder in this flat?”
All the guests leaned forward and gazed at the sandwich.
Herbert spoke in a tragic whisper to his mother:
“Mollie’s finger!”
Then he explained the matter airily to the general company.
“Oh, it’s a special kind of sandwich with the gravy outside. A new fad, you know.”
“Oh, I see,” said Atkinson Brown, much relieved. “Hadn’t heard of it. Still, I think I’ll have an ordinary one, if you don’t mind.”
Herbert was muttering little prayers remembered from his childhood.
“Mrs. Hargreaves,” he said cajolingly, “I am sure you play. Won’t you give us a little tune?”
“Well, if it won’t disturb your wife,” said the lady.