I saw Monty moisten his lips. He has since explained the swiftness with which he also was able to come into line and to play up so really nobly as he did. Philip, if you remember, had forbidden him pretty gruffly to say one word about all this to Audrey Cunningham; it is no light matter to dictate to another man what he shall say and what he shall not say to his fiancée; and this it was that saved the situation. If Monty was to be ordered to keep his mouth shut before his fiancée he was jolly well not going to be pumped by an outsider, Police Inspector or no Police Inspector. On such hairs do our actions hang sometimes. "Fire away," he had said. "Well, sir, to begin with, would you be so kind as to tell me in your own words exactly what you saw on the roof this morning?" "Certainly," Monty had replied. And he had launched out. From the point of view of the things he omitted I can only describe his performance as brilliant. Camouflage was certainly Monty's war-job. Not one single word was there about bullet-holes, cartridge-cases or pistols. Had there been a polar bear or a pterodactyl on the roof it might have been worth mentioning, but a pistol--no. My only fear was lest he should be so pleased with his own performance as to undo it again out of sheer satisfaction presently. "Thank you very much indeed, sir," said the Inspector. "I asked you for your own words and you've given them. Now I wonder if I might be allowed to ask you one or two questions?" "Fire away," said Monty again. But here the Inspector himself had seemed to be in some slight difficulty. Apparently for some reason he wasn't very anxious to speak of pistols either. Polar bears or pterodactyls, yes; but not pistols. I have since thought that, as a man of some penetration, he also might have had his private opinion about Mr. Harry Westbury, and thought it best to act on anything Westbury said with caution. Nevertheless, the series of questions that had followed had all been in the very close neighborhood of pistols, so to speak. I itemize what struck me as being their real, if unuttered trend. "About this man that's dead, Mr. Rooke. You saw his face, of course?" (_Item: Had Maxwell been shot through the head?_) Yes, Monty had seen his face, but so, he ventured to remind the Inspector, had he himself. "Well, say I had other things to attend to and didn't particularly notice. You'd say he was--pretty bad?" (_Item: So bad that there might have been a little hole on one side of his head and a big one on the other without your noticing it?_) "Rotten," said Monty with an unaffected shiver. "Bleeding much?" (_Item: Or anything else scattered about?_) "No." "Clothes singed?" (_Item: If not through the head, perhaps through the body?_) "Yes. Badly. Bits of the parachute too." "From where you were on the roof lots of people could see you?" (_Item: If you'd done anything you'd no business to do, for instance?_)