“Frightened,” said Hastings. “Wind up.”
“But—but whatever of?”
“You—and your damned sufficient efficiency. Yesterday I swore to myself I’d pluck up the nerve to tell you as soon as I caught you, red-handed, making a mistake. And you see I have——”
Her eyes flashed. “What d’you mean? Mistake! I like that! When I’ve caught the murderer——”
They both swung round, remembrance flooding back. The owner of the flat lay beside the over-turned table, a shapeless heap in the dark dressing-gown.
Margaret shivered. “Mistake, indeed!” she began.
“Well, you did. This is a man’s job. You ought to’ve waited till I came back. God! how you frightened me! Suppose this outer door here hadn’t been ajar.”
“But, Jack——”
Hastings forgot murders. “Why d’you call me that?” he asked.
“ ’Cause I couldn’t always be saying ‘Spencer.’ I’d feel like a heroine in a serial. And don’t interrupt. I was going to say: Never mind, we’ve got the man. Won’t Colonel Gethryn be pleased?”