The door was flung open. The detective inspector strode in. "May Weston?" He was more the policeman than ever.
Reggie stood up. "How civil you are!" he said.
"You make yourself very busy, don't you?" The inspector glared. "Don't you interfere with me. May Weston—I shall charge you with the murder of your mistress, Birdie Bolton. Get up off that bed now."
"He's forgotten the rest of his part—'anything you say may be used in evidence against you,' Miss Weston. So you'll say nothing, please."
The inspector grew red and puffed, and advanced upon Reggie. "Here, you—you clear out of this. You're obstructing me in"
"Is it possible?" Reggie drawled. "Well, it isn't necessary, anyway." and he left the inspector still swelling.
It is fair to him to add, what he has since protested, that he never liked May Weston. Pussy-cat is his name for her, and he is not fond of cats.
From her room he went to the telephone in the hall, and there the inspector, still rather flushed, found him again.
"And what might you be doing now, if you please?" said the inspector, with constabulary sarcasm.
"Oh, I'm talking to Miss Bolton's solicitors.
