“I think that’s all, Sir Eustace, except some miscellaneous odds and ends, a motor-veil and some odd gloves⁠—that sort of thing.”

“If you hadn’t been a born idiot, Pagett, you would have seen from the start that those couldn’t possibly be my belongings.”

“I thought some of them might belong to Miss Pettigrew.”

“Ah, that reminds me⁠—what do you mean by picking me out such a doubtful character as a secretary?”

And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been put through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that I knew only too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it was too late. Pagett was on the warpath.