Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays down the receiver, after a brief “At once, my lord.”

He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.

“From his lordship⁠—at Chimneys⁠—Murder.”

“Murder,” echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.

“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.

“Why, there’s never been a murder here⁠—not that I’ve ever heard of⁠—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”

“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said the inspector, deprecatingly.

“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real thing, is it, sir?”