“And talk of Time slipping by you, as if it was an animal at rustic sports with its tail soaped,” said Mr. Inspector (again, a subject which nobody had approached); “why, well you may. Well you may. How has it slipped by us, since the time when Mr. Job Potterson here present, Mr. Jacob Kibble here present, and an Officer of the Force here present, first came together on a matter of identification!”

Bella’s husband stepped softly to the half-door of the bar, and stood there.

“How has Time slipped by us,” Mr. Inspector went on slowly, with his eyes narrowly observant of the two guests, “since we three very men, at an inquest in this very house⁠— Mr. Kibble? Taken ill, sir?”