I inspected the article which he dangled aloft triumphantly.
“It looks like hair,” I remarked distastefully.
“It is hair. I think it’s what they call a toupee.”
“Indeed,” I commented.
“Now are you convinced that that Pettigrew woman is a man in disguise?”
“Really, my dear Pagett, I think I am. I might have known it by her feet.”
“Then that’s that. And now, Sir Eustace, I want to speak to you about my private affairs. I cannot doubt, from your hints and your continual allusions to the time I was in Florence, that you have found me out.”
At last the mystery of what Pagett did in Florence is going to be revealed!
“Make a clean breast of it, my dear fellow,” I said kindly. “Much the best way.”
“Thank you, Sir Eustace.”
“Is it her husband? Annoying fellows, husbands. Always turning up when they’re least expected.”
“I fail to follow you, Sir Eustace. Whose husband?”
“The lady’s husband.”
“What lady?”
“God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There must have been a lady. Don’t tell me that you merely robbed a church or stabbed an Italian in the back because you didn’t like his face.”