“I only remarked that yours was a bad cold.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Not that it’s a cold, sir, exactly. It’s this hay-fever. And very troublesome it is, sir, for an old fellow like me!”
“Must be.” Anthony was sympathetic. “D’you have these attacks many times a day?”
“I used to, sir. But this summer it does seem to be improving, sir. Only takes me every now and then, as you might say.” The old man’s voice showed gratitude for this concern about his ailment.
But Anthony’s interest in hay-fever was not yet abated. “This the first bad fit you’ve had for some time?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Quite a while since I was so bad, sir. It didn’t trouble me at all yesterday, sir.”
Anthony drew nearer. “D’you happen to remember,” he said slowly, “whether you—er—sneezed like that at all on the evening your master was killed?”
Poole exhibited agitation. “Whether I—the master——” the thin hands twisted about each other. “Forgive me, sir—I—I can’t remember, sir. I’m a foolish old fellow—and any mention of—of that terrible night sort of seems to—to upset me, sir.” He passed a hand across his forehead. “No, sir, I really can’t remember. I’m an old man, sir. My memory’s not what it was. Not what it was——”
But Anthony was listening no longer. He was, in fact, no longer there to listen. He had suddenly turned about and sprung into the hall. As Mr. Poole said later in the servants’ hall: “I’d never of believed such a lazy-looking gentleman could of moved so quick. Like the leap of a cat, it was!”
Had he followed into the hall, he would have had more matter for gossip. For by the door of the verandah Anthony stood clutching, none too gently, the skinny shoulder of Robert Belford—the man-servant he had christened “Ferret-face.”