“Don’t you think we often imagine that we can see resemblances between things when none really exists?” argued Bannister. “I mean this,” he continued, “the existence of a general resemblance is very often mistaken for something much more particular—don’t you think so?”
“It’s possible,” conceded Anthony.
“There’s Ross back,” declared Bannister listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. “All right?” he queried.
“Everything O.K., sir,” answered the Sergeant.
“Any news coming through for me from Seabourne?”
“None, sir.”
“I asked Sergeant Godfrey to keep me posted if anything important transpired.”
“Did you expect anything?”
“I gave Godfrey instructions to try to trace the purchase of the hydrocyanic acid—not that I think he’ll succeed,” he added sternly. “I’ll wager my kingdom that little dose of poison was bought a good many miles from Seabourne—even though there’s a signature in the ‘Poisons’ Book.’”
Ross nodded wisely. “Something to kill a dog, if you please, chemist?” he quoted sarcastically.
Bannister grinned in satirical appreciation. “Every time!” he exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Bathurst, what’s our programme now?”
Anthony pulled-to the door of the garage and locked them again. Then he handed the keys and the postcard to Bannister. “It’s getting on,” he said glancing at his watch, “I think I’ll stay the night in Westhampton. Can you recommend me to a hotel, Sergeant Ross?”
“‘The Grand’ should suit you, sir, just up the High Street on the right.”
“I think I’ll accompany you, Mr. Bathurst, if you’ve no objection?” put in the Inspector, “I’ve seen all I want here, Sergeant; fasten the place up, and we’ll get away.”
“The Grand” was of the solidly-comfortable type. The dining-room to which Bannister and Anthony repaired gave promise of substantial refreshment. It was some time since either of them had tackled anything in the shape of food and the meal that the waiters placed before them proved singularly acceptable. Anthony ordered a bottle of “Pol Roger” and Bannister expanded under its inspiring influence. Four or five other tables were occupied—in most instances by a pair of people. Suddenly two young men, in morning dress, entered the room and made their way to the left-hand corner of the dining-room, to the table nearest to the fireplace and directly behind where Anthony was seated. They seated themselves and gave their order to the waiter. Shortly afterwards Anthony caught the sound of a familiar name. “Alan Warburton?” he heard. “Haven’t seen him at all this journey—and I’ve called at one or two of his favourite haunts too.” Anthony half-turned in the direction of the speaker. He was just in time to see the man addressed lean across the table and speak in low tones. The first man paled, lifted his hand and then stopped suddenly short—his glass half-raised to his lips. “Good God!” he gasped “Never!! Daphne Carruthers?!! That’s a Westhampton name.”
Chapter XII
Mr. Bathurst listens to a little local gossip
Anthony motioned Bannister to lean over the table in his direction. Bannister needed no second bidding. He had noticed that Mr. Bathurst had displayed a more than ordinary interest in the two gentlemen and he guessed that there must be good reason for this interest.
“Friends of young Warburton, behind,” he whispered. “It’s just possible we might pick up some information if we handle them judiciously. What do you think?”
Bannister nodded vigorously. He had only a few months to run before reaching a well-earned retirement and it was far from his intention, if he could help it, to complete his career with an unsuccessful “case.” Everything that touched upon the affair at all—he meant to investigate with the utmost thoroughness—even though it might appear at first blush to be of the most unimportant and trivial nature.
“Good idea,” he muttered. As he spoke the door of the room opened again and a shout, a jovial-faced man entered and crossed the room. He came straight to Bannister’s table.
“Good evening, Inspector,” he said with out-stretched hand.
“Good evening,” replied Bannister, rising quickly. “you are Mr.—-?” He paused.
“Falcon,” announced the newcomer.”
“Why—you’re the—?”
“Proprietor of the ‘Grand Hotel,’” came the answer. “What is it this—?”
“Just the man I wanted,” interjected the Inspector, cutting short his sentence. “This is a friend of mine—Mr. Anthony Bathurst.”
Falcon smiled at Anthony. Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgement. Bannister motioned Falcon to a seat beside him. “Something you can tell me. Who are the two young fellows at the table behind?”
Falcon indulged in a sharp sidelong glance. “Two young ‘commercials,’” he declared. “They’re frequently here. They come in here pretty regularly towards the end of the week.”
Bannister pulled the hotel-proprietor towards him. “Did you see any news in the paper this morning about a tragedy at Seabourne?”
“Can’t say that I did,” said Falcon. “As a matter of fact I’ve had a downright busy day and haven’t had too much time to spare for actual newspaper-reading. I looked at the sporting news, it’s true—but I think that was about all. What about it?”
Bannister dropped his voice to its lowest possible pitch. “We have reason to suspect,” he announced very gravely, “that the murdered lady is an inhabitant of these parts.”
“By George,” cried Falcon with excitement, “I remember now. You’ve refreshed my memory. I heard a couple of customers discussing it in the bar early this evening. I remember I heard the name Carruthers mentioned.”
“That’s the case,” continued Bannister capturing an elusive olive, “and a Miss Carruthers was originally believed to have been the victim.”
“Major Carruthers’ niece that would be?” interrupted Falcon.
“Yes—Daphne. But latest information that we have managed to pick up proves that that is not the case. There has been a confusion of identity. The murdered girl turns out to be another young lady.” He crumbled a piece of bread on to the white table-cloth. “In the greatest confidence, Mr. Falcon, I’ll tell you what we have discovered and what brings me on the hunt to Westhampton. The murdered girl is Miss
