“He’s as free as the air,” said Roger, bitterly. “I’m sick and tired of the whole damned business. The man’s so rotten that he stinks. I feel that if I even hear his name mentioned again, I’ll throw a fit.”

They stood staring at each other, until suddenly he grinned. “Sorry, sweet! No more hysterics. Any hope of an early supper? I didn’t get more than a sandwich at lunch.”

“I’ll have it ready by the time you’ve changed,” promised Janet. “Why don’t you have a drink first?”

A whisky-and-soda, sausages, eggs and chips, and a boisterous half hour with the two boys when they came in, damp-haired, bright-eyed, and ravenous, drove gloom away.

At nine o’clock Martin, called Scoopy, a massive fourteen, and Richard, called Richard, an average thirteen, came away from television, rubbing their eyes.

Janet said: “Bed now, boys, and don’t take all day to get ready.”

“No, Mum. I just want to ask Dad something.” Scoopy eyed his father, while Richard watched from the door; this was obviously a put-up job, probably schemed to win ten or fifteen minutes’ respite from bedtime. “I was reading about that man, Raeburn, who got off, Dad. Didn’t you think you’d got him?”

“I did,” answered Roger.

“What happened?”

“Either I’m a bad detective, or a witness lied.”

“You mean that Eve Franklin?”

“The pretty woman,” Richard put in.

“We were reading about it in the evening paper,” Scoopy explained. “Do you really think she lied?”

“Between these four walls, yes,” Roger said, “but if you breathe a word outside, I’ll never confide in you again. Now, off to bed!”

“I jolly well know one thing,” declared Richard, his blue eyes looking enormous, “you’re not a bad detective.”

“Come on, Fish, no need to say the obvious,” Scoopy said, and dragged his brother off.

Roger slept soundly, woke in a more cheerful mood, and was even prepared for a few knocks in the morning newspapers. Scoopy, five feet ten and absurdly powerful, bounded up the stairs with them, announcing: “You’re starred again in the Cry, Pop!”