self-importance, his amateurishness and all the rest of it—but he liked looking after him. And he knew how to manage him."
"Yes. . . . What sort of terms was he on with the guests—you and Miss Norris and all of them?"
"Just polite and rather silent, you know. Keeping himself to himself. We didn't see so very much of him, except at meals. We were here to enjoy ourselves, and—well, he wasn't."
"He wasn't there when the ghost walked?"
"No. I heard Mark calling for him when he went back to the house. I expect Cayley stroked down his feathers a bit, and told him that girls will be girls. . . .Hallo, here we are."
They went into the inn, and while Bill made himself pleasant to the landlady, Antony went upstairs to his room. It appeared that he had not very much packing to do, after all. He returned his brushes to his bag, glanced round to see that nothing else had been taken out, and went down again to settle his bill. He had decided to keep on his room for a few days; partly to save the landlord and his wife the disappointment of losing a guest so suddenly, partly in case he found it undesirable later on to remain at the Red House. For he was taking himself seriously as a detective; indeed, he took himself seriously (while getting all the fun out of it which was possible) at every new profession he adopted; and he felt that there might come a time—after the inquest, say—when he could not decently remain at the Red House as a guest, a friend of
