Brandon. Are you suggesting that some psychic force, emanating from that chest there, is going to advise Sir Johnstone Kentley of the fact that the remains—or shall I say the lifeless entirety—of his twenty-year-old son and heir is contained therein? (Pause.) My dear Granillo, if you are feeling in any way insecure, perhaps I had better fortify you with a brief summary of facts—with mathematics as it were. Let me please give you———
Granillo. Listen! [There is a tense stillness.
Brandon. What are———?
Granillo. Listen, I tell you! (Another pause. Granillo springs up and goes over to window, where he can be seen peeping through the curtains.) It’s all right. I thought it was Sabot. (He comes down to chair again.)
Brandon. Sabot, in the first place, will not be here until five minutes to nine, if then, for Sabot is seldom punctual. Sabot, in the second place, has been deprived by a wily master of his key. He will therefore ring. Let me, I say, give you a cool narration of our transactions. This afternoon, at about two o’clock, young Ronald Kentley, our fellow-undergraduate, left his father’s house with the object of visiting the Coliseum Music Hall. He did so. After the performance he was met in the street by your good self, and invited to this house. He was then given tea, and at six forty-five precisely, done to death by strangulation and rope. He was subsequently deposited in that chest. To-night, at nine o’clock, his father, Sir Johnstone Kentley, his aunt, Mrs. Debenham, and three well-chosen friends of our own will come round here for regalement. They will talk small talk and depart. After the party, at eleven o’clock . . .
Granillo (interrupting). This party isn’t a slip, is it, Brandon?
Brandon. My dear Granno, have we not already agreed that the entire beauty and piquancy of the evening
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