“Only this,” said Halley lighting a cigarette, “that as you are a Scotland Yard detective, I suppose most of your life is spent in that way.”
“A Scotland Yard detective,” blurted out Fletcher.
Halley held up his hand. “Please do not take the trouble to deny it. I know you were sent down by Scotland Yard to investigate the murder.”
Fletcher’s mind was in a whirl, it was obviously impossible to deny the statement made in such an emphatic tone.
“How on earth do you know anything about me?” said he unguardedly.
Halley shrugged his shoulders.
“What about you?” said Fletcher angrily. “Who and what are you? You have come here from no one knows where, and have no apparent occupation except loafing about and enquiring into other people’s business, and imposing on trusting girls.”
A look of contempt was on Ena’s face.
“Is it true, Mr. Fletcher? Are you really a detective?”
“It is quite true, Miss Sefton, though how your friend became acquainted with this, I do not know.” There was an unpleasant emphasis on the word “friend.” “I suppose you have no objection to detectives?”