"Well, Flora telephoned for her. She said something terrible had happened, and Miss Weston wanted me. I say, doctor, what has happened?"
"Jolly kind of Flora," Reggie said. "Well, Mr. Ford, Miss Bolton has been murdered."
"My God!" said Mr. Ford, and became livid.
"And Miss Weston has been charged with the murder."
"Oh, my God!" Mr. Ford said again. "Oh, damn!" and put his hand to his head. "Here, let me go to her."
"I don't mind," said Reggie, and Mr. Ford plunged into the house.
Reggie remained on the steps waiting for fresh arrivals. The chauffeur moved his car on out of the way, descended, and behind a laurustinus lit a cigarette. Reggie, who never smoked them, sniffed disapproval and began to fill a pipe.
A taxi-cab drove up, and out of it bounced a plump little man whose coat looked as if he wore stays.
"I am Dr. Fortune," Reggie said.
"And I'm Donald Gordon, doctor," said the little man, who was emphatically a Jew. "Moss and Gordon." It was the name of Miss Bolton's solicitors. "Many thanks for letting us know. Poor, dear Birdie. She was a peach. Let's have all the facts, please." He had an engaging lisp.
