His face was a flat mask, with expression ironed out of every feature. “I—I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Come on, man,” I rallied him. “What’s this hold Blenkinson’s got over you?”
His countenance remained under rigid muscular control, but his legs gave a little shiver. He looked at me, and his face was empty of thought, but then his gaze met his master’s. He paled, for Crofts’ glare demanded rather than invited confession.
“It’s—it’s Mr. Blenkinson’s, er, theory, sir.”
“My God, has Blenkinson a theory too!” Crofts shouted. “A speculative butler! What next? I don’t pay him to have theories.”
“No, sir,” agreed Soames. “We all ’ave the greatest confidence in Mr. Blenkinson.”
“No doubt,” I said. “And Soames, ah, what is the nature of Mr. Blenkinson’s theory?”
The servant had the look of a man ground between millstones. His neck undulated in a series of gulps.
“Out with it,” I urged. “Confession is good for the soul.”
Soames turned an imploring look at me, his eyes like those of a wretch in extremis.