CHAPTER FIFTEENSlacks
Before going down to breakfast on Sunday morning Gamadge, warned by sounds of activity within and without the house, looked from Sylvanus Hutter’s window. He saw the cars parked in the drive, and caught a glimpse of Macloud, supported by the presence of two state policemen, glumly handing out typed statements to a ravening press. He gained the dining-room by way of the back stairs, the rear passage, and the side door.
One of the large, phlegmatic maids served him. She said that Thomas was “not so well.”
“Splendid, the way you’re all keeping your heads,” said Gamadge, enjoying his coffee and his perfectly cooked eggs and bacon. The tall maid, soldierly and trim in her grey uniform, did not deign to reply. If she could lose her head in any circumstances, he thought,
