“Not at all. I thought perhaps it might be worth mentioning, in case you thought it best, well, to lay hands somehow on Brinkman.”
“Why, Mr. Pulteney,” said Angela, bubbling over, “we were just preparing to lay hands on you!”
Chapter XVIII.
The Barmaid Is Brought to Book
The bewilderment registered by Mr. Pulteney’s face at this extraordinary announcement rapidly gave way to a look of intense gratification. “At last,” he said, “I have lived! To be mistaken for a criminal, perhaps a murderer—it is my nunc dimittis. All these years I have lived the blameless life of one who is continually called upon to edify his juniors; I have risen early in order to convict my pupils of the sin of being late; I have eaten sparingly in order to pretend that the food provided by our establishment is satisfying when it is not; I have pretended to sentiments of patriotism, of rugged sportsmanship, of moral approval or indignation, which I did not feel. There is little to choose, believe me, between the fakir and the schoolmaster; either must spend days of wearisome mortification, because that is the way in which he gets his living. And now, for one crowded hour of glorious old age, I have been mistaken for a guilty intriguer. The blood flows richer in my veins; I am overcome with gratitude. If only I could have kept it up!”
“Mr. Eames,” said Angela, “there’s one thing you said which you’ve got to take back. You said Mr. Pulteney was too much a man of reflection to be a man of action as well. And now you’ve heard how he broke into a garage, stole a piece of sandwich, and took the cap off a petrol-tank without being in the least certain that the car wouldn’t explode. Is this the pale scholar you pictured to us?”
“I apologize,” said Eames. “I apologize to Mr. Pulteney unreservedly. I will form no more judgments of character. You may tell me that Mrs. Davis is a murderess, if you will, and I will discuss the proposition on its merits.”
“Talking of which,” said Angela, “the cream of the situation is that we still don’t know who it was that was rubbering behind that beastly mill-house.”
“Oh, as to that,” said Eames diffidently, “I’ve felt fairly certain about that all along. I suppose it’s the result of living with priests that one becomes thus worldly wise. But didn’t you know, Mr. Bredon, that maids always steal their masters’ cigarettes? It is, I believe, a more or less recognized form of perquisite. Every liberty taken by the rich is aped by their domestics. And, although she is not in household service, I have no doubt that the barmaid here claims a like privilege.”
“Do you mean”—— began Bredon:
“You noticed, surely, that her fingers are a little stained with brown? I noticed it when she brought in my fried eggs. Ladies generally have expensive tastes in cigarettes, and I have no doubt that this maid would go for the Callipoli if she got a chance.”