"I assume that Cowan's Cranberry Sauce had no inconsiderable part in his translation."
"Ah, yes. His wife. I forgot. Sugar, Mr. Blair?"
"By the way, here are the two duplicate keys to the Franchise gate. I take it that I may keep one. The other you had better give to the police, I think, so that they can look round as they please. I also have to inform you that you now have a private agent in your employ." And he told them about Alec Ramsden, who appeared on doorsteps at half-past eight in the morning.
"No word of anyone recognising the Ack-Emma photograph and writing to Scotland Yard?" Marion asked. "I had pinned my faith to that."
"Not so far. But there is still hope."
"It is five days since the Ack-Emma printed it. If anyone was ever going to recognise it they would have by now."
"You don't make allowances for the discards. That is nearly always the way it happens. Someone spreads open their parcel of chips and says: 'Dear me, where did I see that face? Or someone is using a bundle of newspapers to line drawers in a hotel. Or something like that. Don't lose hope, Miss Sharpe. Between the good Lord and Alec Ramsden, we'll triumph in the end."
She looked at him soberly. "You really believe that, don't you," she said as one noting a phenomenon.
"I do," he said.
"You believe in the ultimate triumph of Good."