“Thanks,” I said. “But, you see, the fact is I have got a bit—er—perplexed about how to explain the appearance of the head. Possibly you could suggest?”
“We-ll,” said Theodore, pursing his lips in deep thought, “let me see. Have you thought of the Chinaman being in a manhole? Only his head showing, you know.” He turned his back on me and drew out his handkerchief. He seemed to have a very bad cold.
“No,” I said emphatically, “this is a severed head.”
“It might have been dropped from a ballooo—achoo!” gargled Theodore, his back still turned.
“Really, Theodore,” I said, rising, “thank you for the drinks, but I must say your mind doesn't seem to fire to a true mystery-story. I must have something better than that. I shall have to find it.”
As I was going down the front steps, Theodore opened the door.
“Oh, Tuffin,” he called after me, “how did he know it was a Chinaman?”
“By the queue wound round the neck,” I called back. It was rather good for an impromptu, I think. “The man had been murdered.”
I then found myself colliding with a policeman. He looked after me suspiciously.