Presumably the reading party had by this time recruited itself after the hazards of the day, and some members of it at least could stand up to a little questioning. Appleby’s own meal had been hasty; there had been, not unnaturally, various local authorities to see; and there had also been certain crucial telephone inquiries to make in London. When he got to the George he asked for Pettifor. And Pettifor appeared at once and led him into a deserted smoking room. ‘I hope you don’t want young David Henchman,’ he said. ‘The boy’s tired out. He lacks the season of all natures, sleep. I’ve packed him off to bed.’ ‘Quite right.’ If Appleby thought this manner of speech mildly strange, he said nothing. ‘And you must understand, Mr Pettifor, that I have no official concern with this affair. But as I got mixed up in it, I think I ought to try and see it through. I think you know the Chief Constable down here?’ ‘Dear me, yes. We’re distantly related.’ Pettifor smiled.
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