The truth is that we were all overcome at the moment by an irresistible desire to appear tactful. We wanted to show the Jervaises that we had not suspected anything, or that if we had, we didn't mind in the least, and it certainly wasn't their fault. Nevertheless, I saw no reason why in the privacy of the supper-room--we had the place to ourselves--I should not talk to Hughes. I had never before that afternoon met any of the Jervaise family except Frank, and on one or two occasions his younger brother who was in the army and, now, in India; and I thought that this was an appropriate occasion to improve my knowledge. I understood that Hughes was an old friend of the family. He may have been, although the fact did not appear in his conversation; for I discovered almost immediately that he was, either by nature or by reason of his legal training, cursed with a procrastinating gift of diplomacy. "Awkward affair!" I began as soon as we had got our whiskies and lighted cigarettes. Hughes drank with a careful slowness, put his glass down with superfluous accuracy, and then after another instant of tremendous deliberation, said, "What is?" "Well, this," I returned gravely. "Meaning?" he asked judicially. "Of course it may be too soon to draw an inference," I said. "Especially with no facts to draw them from," he added. "All the same," I went on boldly, "it looks horribly suspicious." "What does?" I began to lose patience with him. "I'm not suggesting that the Sturtons' man from the Royal Oak has been murdered," I said. He weighed that remark as if it might cover a snare, before he scored a triumph of allusiveness by replying, "Fellow called Carter. He's got a blue nose." Despite my exasperation I tried once more on a note of forced geniality, "What sort of man is this chauffeur of the Jervaises? Do you know him at all?" "Wears brown leather gaiters," Hughes answered after another solemn deliberation. I could have kicked him with all the pleasure in life. His awful guardedness made me feel as if I were an inquisitive little journalist trying to ferret out some unsavoury scandal. And he had been the first person to point the general suspicion a few minutes earlier, by his inquiry about the motor. I decided to turn the tables on him, if I could manage it. "I asked because you seemed to suggest just now that he had gone off with the Jervaises' motor," I remarked. Hughes stroked his long thin nose with his thumb and forefinger. It seemed to take him about a minute from bridge to nostril. Then he inhaled a long draught of smoke from his cigarette, closed one eye as if it hurt him, and threw back his head to blow out the smoke again with a slow gasp of relief. "One never knows," was all the explanation he vouchsafed after this tedious performance. "Whether a chauffeur will steal his master's motor?" I asked. "Incidentally," he said. "But, good heavens, if he's that sort of man..." I suggested.