“It’s a telegram from the police at Marlow. A woman has been murdered in your house.”
That aroused me in earnest.
“What colossal cheek,” I exclaimed. “Why in my house? Who murdered her?”
“They don’t say. I suppose we shall go back to England at once, Sir Eustace?”
“You need suppose nothing of the kind. Why should we go back?”
“The police—”
“What on earth have I to do with the police?”
“Well, it was your house.”
“That,” I said, “appears to be more my misfortune than my fault.”
Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.
“It will have a very unfortunate effect upon the constituency,” he remarked lugubriously.
I don’t see why it should have—and yet I have a feeling that in such matters Pagett’s instincts are always right. On the face of it, a member of parliament will be none the less efficient because a stray young woman comes and gets herself murdered in an empty house that belongs to him—but there is no accounting for the view the respectable British public takes of a matter.
“She’s a foreigner too, and that makes it worse,” continued Pagett gloomily.