“It’s—it’s about Colonel Protheroe’s death.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m very anxious, you see, to get at the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I feel that there may be—that someone might—that—that there might be some incident—”
At this point Lawrence felt that he was not covering himself with glory, and heartily cursed Miss Marple and her suggestions.
“I wondered if you could help me?”
“Yes, sir?”
Rose’s demeanour was still that of the perfect servant, polite, anxious to assist, and completely uninterested.
“Dash it all,” said Lawrence, “haven’t you talked the thing over in the servants’ hall?”
This method of attack flustered Rose slightly. Her perfect poise was shaken.
“In the servants’ hall, sir?”
“Or the housekeeper’s room, or the bootboy’s dugout, or wherever you do talk? There must be some place.”
Rose displayed a very faint disposition to giggle, and Lawrence felt encouraged.
“Look here, Rose, you’re an awfully nice girl. I’m sure you must understand what I’m feeling like. I don’t want to be hanged. I didn’t