CHAPTER EIGHTEENMr Campion, arriving home a little before three in the morning full of the deepest misgivings and secretly uneasy because the police had not called upon him to identify anyone whom the amorous lorry driver might have described, found, instead of the expected detective, Lugg and Amanda in the kitchenette eating bacon and eggs.
“The poor kid’s got to get to work at the factory by seven-thirty termorrow.” Lugg’s greeting was reproachful. “I thought at least I’d give ’er a bit of breakfast. What will you ’ave yourself? Eggs or a mite of ’erring? I’ve got a lovely little tin ’asn’t been opened above a couple of days. I was savin’ it for when I fancied it.”
The kitchen was warm and odorous, and Mr Campion, who suddenly felt he had been too long among the sophists, sat down on t
