"The leg of mutton?"
"Exactly, Hastings, the leg of mutton. Everybody swore that no one had
been to Granite Bungalow that morning, but, nevertheless, I found in
the larder a leg of mutton, still frozen. It was Monday, so the meat
must have been delivered that morning; for if on Saturday, in this hot
weather, it would not have remained frozen over Sunday. So some one
_had_ been to the Bungalow, and a man on whom a trace of blood
here and there would attract no attention."
"Damned ingenious!" cried Ingles approvingly.
"Yes, he is clever, Number Four."
"As clever as Hercule Poirot?" I murmured.
My friend threw me a glance of dignified reproach.
"There are some jests that you should not permit yourself, Hastings,"
he said sententiously. "Have I not saved an innocent man from being
sent to the gallows? That is enough for one day."