"Nor," went on Antony, "can you say, 'This is my friend Mr. Gillingham, who is staying with you. We were just going to have a game of bowls.'"
"Yes, it's dashed difficult.
I don't know what to say.
I've been rather forgetting about Mark." He wandered over to the window and looked out on to the lawns.
There was a gardener clipping the grass edges.
No reason why the lawn should be untidy just because the master of the house had disappeared.
It was going to be a hot day again.
Dash it, of course he had forgotten Mark.
How could he think of him as an escaped murderer, a fugitive from justice, when everything was going on just as it did yesterday, and the sun was shining just as it did when they all drove off to their golf, only twenty-four hours ago? How could he help feeling that this was not real tragedy, but merely a jolly kind of detective game that he and Antony were playing?
He turned back to his friend.