"What is it, then?" Barnes said sulkily.
"Seek not to proticipate. Hallo!"
The interruption was the Hon. Stanley Lomas, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, dapper and debonair.
"Ah, Fortune, good man. Why didn't you ask for me? I'm at the inn in the village."
"That's very haughty of you. Why not in the house? Have you put Lady Lunt's back up? Or has she put up yours?"
"Oh, best to have a free hand, don't you know? Well, what do you make of it?" Reggie shrugged. "Curious features, what? What I want to know is, was that blow on the head before the shot or after?"
"What you want is not a surgeon, it's a clairvoyant. Anyway, you don't want me. You've got your man."
"Have I?" Lomas put up his eyeglass. "You mean Cranford? Now how did you know about Cranford?"
"Sorry, Lomas. Nothing doing. I'm the independent expert this time."
Lomas frowned. "My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! Unless you're acting for some one, you've no business here, don't you know?"
"I'm acting for some one all right—for V. Cranford."
"Hallo! You've made up your mind?" Barnes cried.
