None of the others had as yet put the
two events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr. Siddle
stifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and no one
could gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion was with
him, and drove the point home.
"Hobson--the local joiner and undertaker"--he explained for Mr.
Franklin's benefit--"came this morning to borrow a couple of horses for
the job. It's to be done in style--'no expense spared' was Mr. Ingerman's
order--and the poor thing is in her coffin now while Grant--"
He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed.
"You've said enough, Elkin," murmured the chemist. "This excitement is
harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours,
dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton's mixture regularly. He
has changed it, I noticed."
"Bed! Me! Not likely. I'm going to kick up a row. What are the police
doing? A set of blooming old women, that's what they are. But I'll stir
'em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary."
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, "I cannot help taking a
certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger to
all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me.
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