"I'm busy.

I'll see you later." It was difficult to reconcile the detective's present stand-off manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman's interruption.
Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine.

He was snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers.

One man, backing impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.
The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.
"If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to my place, and I'll give you one," he said.
The pressman was grateful, because Grant's action had tended to mitigate his discomfiture.
"No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr.Grant," he said.
"What I really want is a portrait of 'the celebrated' author in whose grounds the body was found." "Come along, then, and I'll pose for you." The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave.

He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship.