22
At the office of Messrs. Speier & Ross, Mr. Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders and sent in his card.
Presently he was ushered¹ into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing-table.
The young man got up and shook hands.
“Good of you to look me up, sir,” he said.
His tone implied.
“I have to say that, but really it’s a damned bore.”
Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said:
“Seen the news this morning?”
“You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar - ”
“Not dollars,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation². Babbington was poisoned - by nicotine³.”
“Oh, that - yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.”
“But it doesn’t interest you?”
“My tastes aren’t so crude. After all, murder -” he shrugged⁴ his shoulders. “So violent and inartistic.”
“Not always inartistic,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“No? Well, perhaps not.”
“It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic⁵ manner.”
“Nice of you to say so,” drawled Oliver.
“But frankly⁶, my dear boy, I don’t think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.”
There was a moment’s silence - then a pen dropped to the floor. Oliver said:
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you.”
“That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I
should be interested to know - just why you did it.”
There was another silence, then Oliver said:
“You say the police - suspect?”
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
“It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think?” he asked pleasantly.

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