‘Stap my vitals, Stilton,’ I cried, in uncontrollable astonishment. ‘Why the fancy dress?’ He, too, had a question to ask. ‘What the hell are you doing here, you bloodstained Wooster?’ I held up a hand. This was no time for side issues. ‘Why are you got up like a policeman?’ ‘I am a policeman.’ ‘A policeman?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When you say “policeman”,’ I queried, groping, ‘do you mean “policeman”?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’re a policeman?’ ‘Yes, blast you. Are you deaf? I’m a policeman.’ I grasped it now. He was a policeman. And, my mind flashing back to yesterday’s encounter in the jewellery bin, I realized what had made his manner furtive and evasive when I had asked him what he did at Steeple Bumpleigh. He had shrunk from revealing the truth, fearing lest I might be funny at his expense – as, indeed, I would have been, extraordinarily funny. Even now, though the gravity of the situation forbade their utterance, I was thinking of at least three priceless cracks I could make.
