“Little Pongo’s right again,” said Jimmy. “On the word ‘one’ all pack clocks, and then we’ll go downstairs and disarm suspicion.”
Bridge was still proceeding—with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real interest. She reiterated, not once, but many times:
“I see, dear. It’s so kind of you to tell me.”
And she continued to make exactly the same errors.
At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:
“Well played, partner, jolly well played.”
Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.
“Say he goes to bed about twelve—what do you think we ought to give him—about an hour?”
He yawned.
“Curious thing—three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye, but tonight, just because I know we’ve got to sit up a bit, I’d give anything to be a mother’s boy and turn in right away.”
Everyone agreed that they felt the same.
“My dear Maria,” rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation, “I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table information.”
Lady Coote had a very good answer to this—namely that as Sir Oswald was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But