“In what fashion?”
“You will not call me ‘your dear sir.’ I object. I strongly object.”
A titter of amusement trickled through the room. My adversary’s fingers—for he had become an adversary—twitched.
“I was under the impression,” he remarked pompously, “that I was addressing a gentleman.”
I am not good at smart retorts, but I got one in when I answered him.
“A gentleman—I?” I exclaimed blandly. “I assure you, my dear sir, that I don’t pose as a gentleman. I am quite a common man—just like yourself.”
Considerable laughter greeted this remark, but it was at once suppressed. Still, I knew that this single quick rejoinder had biased “the gallery” in my favour. Common people enjoy witnessing the discomfiture of any individual in authority.
Two days later, I left Oakham and returned to London, feeling like a schoolboy going home for Christmas.
The days went by. On the following week I again went to Oakham to attend the adjourned inquest. In the case of the butler, an open verdict was returned, but in the case of the driver, one of murder by some person unknown.
Of Vera I had had no news.