A vision passed through Lord Peter's mind of Sir Reuben kept somewhere in custody till a financial crisis was over. This was exceedingly possible, and far more agreeable than his earlier conjecture; it also agreed better with the impression he was forming of Mr. Milligan.
«Well, it's a rum go,» said Lord Peter, «but I daresay he had his reasons. Much better not enquire into people's reasons, y'know, what? Specially as a police friend of mine who's connected with the case says the old johnnie dyed his hair before he went.»
Out of the tail of his eye, Lord Peter saw the red-headed secretary add up five columns of figures simultaneously and jot down the answer.
«Dyed his hair, did he?» said Mr. Milligan.
«Dyed it red,» said Lord Peter. The secretary looked up. «Odd thing is,» continued Wimsey, «they can't lay hands on the bottle. Somethin' fishy there, don't you think, what?»
The secretary's interest seemed to have evaporated. He inserted a fresh sheet into his loose-leaf ledger, and carried forward a row of digits from the preceding page.
«I daresay there's nothin' in it,» said Lord Peter, rising to go. «Well, it's uncommonly good of you to be bothered with me like this, Mr. Milligan, my mother'll be no end pleased. She'll write you about the date.»
«I'm charmed,» said Mr. Milligan, «very pleased to have met you.»
Mr. Scoot rose silently to open the door, uncoiling as he did so a portentous length of thin leg, hitherto hidden by the desk. With a mental sigh Lord Peter estimated him at six-foot-four.
«It's a pity I can't put Scoot's head on Milligan's shoulders,» said Lord Peter, emerging into the swirl of the city, «and what will my mother say?»