“Drink?”

“Whisky.”

“Much?”

“Probably a couple of doubles, but I don’t see what that matters,” Gubby added. “Raeburn had been drinking the whisky, hadn’t he?”

“If we believe all we’re told, Raeburn was drunk, ran this fellow down, and didn’t trouble to report it.” Roger shrugged, and added dryly: “But I don’t believe all I’m told. I’ve checked up on Raeburn so often that I can almost tell what he does every minute of the day. I know his habits, I know what he likes for supper, and I know the kind of bed warmer he likes best.” Roger gave a short laugh. “I’ve never had a report which suggests that he ever drank too much, and I’ve never known him even slightly tipsy. He isn’t the sort. And if he wasn’t drunk, I don’t believe he’d drive on after running a man down by accident.”

“Deadeye Dick, the detective with a difference. Neat theory, Handsome, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“I can bank on one thing,” Roger declared. “The Yard’s going to work overtime for a month so as to pin another on him while he’s waiting for the charge of manslaughter: If the Legal Department’s awake, it’ll stop him from getting bail. See Haddon soon, won’t you? I’d like to know for certain if that ear injury was caused by the car, or whether there’s a ghost of a chance of proving that it was from a blow received before death.”

“I’ll do what I can,” promised Gubby. “Where are you off to?”

“The Yard,” said Roger. “I’ve one or two people to interview.”

“One or two!” jeered the pathologist. “There’s probably a ‘full house’ notice on the waiting-room door.” He offered cigarettes as he added: “You’d give your right hand to get Raeburn, wouldn’t you?”