“They have all been trying to turn my head. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Stanley. I am suspected of having shot the man. “I meant to say good-bye to you to-night. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. The second look told me I was wrong.
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