“Gawd!” he said, the refinement of the servants’ hall now completely gone. “Gawd! What a bloke! What a bloody good bloke!”
Anthony took the terrace steps three at a time. He was elated. The elation was short-lived; before he had reached the house, despair had taken its place. After all, this playing at detectives was foolery. Why, such a day as this, with its hot, clean peace, its drowsiness, its little scented breeze—was it not a day for a lover to lie at the feet of his mistress? Was it not a day for hot, sun-warmed kisses?
He shook himself, laughing bitterly. “Affectioned ass!” he said to himself.
Sir Arthur came out of the house. “Lovely day, Gethryn. Early, aren’t you?”
“It is and I am. I am also a detective of the greatest. Do I look it?”
Sir Arthur grew eager. “What d’you mean? Have you got anything? Found out anything important?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes, twice.”
“But what, man? What?”
“One, the butler suffers from hay-fever. Two, the murder was committed at as near eleven o’clock as I am to you.”
“Damn it all, Gethryn,” said the elder man, “I don’t think it’s quite fair to pull my leg like that. Not about this. I don’t really!”