He pulled her down on to his knee and kissed her.
"It's twelve hours since I saw you," he said.
She rested her arm on the back of the saddle-back chair, and her dark
head close beside Kerry's fiery red one.
"I kenned ye had a new case on," she said, "when it grew so late. How
long can ye stay?"
"An hour. No more. There's a lot to do before the papers come out in
the morning. By breakfast time all England, including the murderer,
will know I'm in charge of the case. I wish I could muzzle the Press."
"'Tis a murder, then? The Lord gi'e us grace. Ye'll be wishin' to tell
me?"
"Yes. I'm stumped!"
"Ye've time for a rest an' a smoke. Put ye're slippers on."
"I've no time for that, Mary."
She stood up and took the slippers from the hearth.
"Put ye're slippers on," she repeated firmly.
Kerry stooped without another word and began to unlace his brogues.
Meanwhile from a side-table his wife brought a silver tobacco-box and
a stumpy Irish clay. The slippers substituted for his shoes, Kerry
lovingly filled the cracked and blackened bowl with strong Irish
twist, which he first teased carefully in his palm. The bowl rested
almost under his nostrils when he put the pipe in his mouth, and how
he contrived to light it without burning his moustache was not readily
apparent.
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