He held the case in his hand and seemed to give careful consideration to some point. At last he came to a decision and turned to Wendover.
“I think we’ll say nothing about this for a day or two, Squire. I may want to send this case up to London to have it examined, perhaps. I can’t say yet. But in the meanwhile we’ll not mention that we found it. Friend Ernest can take his cigars from the box, in the meantime. That’s no great hardship for him.”
“You think the murderer may have picked it up, and you’ll get his fingerprints from it? It’s a nice smooth surface.”
Sir Clinton looked up from the case with a gleam of amusement on his features.
“You’re in charge of the Speculation, Surmise, and Conjecture Department of this firm, Squire. I’m only a humble clerk in the Mum and Dumb Section—telegraphic address: ‘Tongue-tied.’ ”
Wendover accepted the tacit rebuke without protest.
“Oh, have it your own way,” he said, “I forgot I wasn’t to expect anything from you.”
Sir Clinton wrapped the cigar-case carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket before doing anything further.
“Now I think we’d better go and have a look at the loophole again,” he suggested. “Though I hardly think it’s likely to have changed much since I saw it last. But I have a sort of feeling that Sherlock would have found something there, and perhaps you might be able to spot it, even if I can’t. That’s the worst of this detective business: one needs an eye for detail and I never had it.”
With an air of deep solemnity he led the way to the outer side of the hedge, approached the loophole, and peered into it for a time.
“No,” he admitted finally with a crestfallen air, “it seems just the same as it was when I saw it last.”
He put his hand into the hole.
“Not even a bird’s nest or any little thing of that kind,” he announced disconsolately. “Ah, we need Sherlock; we need Sherlock. He’d have found some cigar-ash or something of that sort, no doubt. I can’t see it. Have a look yourself, Squire.”
Rather irritated by the chaff, Wendover stooped and stared into the loophole. He had to confess, however, that he saw nothing in the slightest degree suggestive.
“No broken twigs where the murderer rested his airgun?” Sir Clinton inquired. “Have a good look; the price is the same for two peeps as for one. Special terms by the hour, if you care to … Ugh! Damn these spiders! That gossamer’s all over the place—filthy, filmy stuff!”
He rubbed his hand on the hedge while Wendover grinned at his annoyance.
“Serves you right, Clinton! It’ll take your mind off all this persiflage business.”
Sir Clinton seemed engrossed in removing the remaining filaments from his hand.
“Pity Sherlock isn’t here,” he let fall in a regretful tone. “He turned into an entomologist of sorts when he retired. Perhaps he could tell us what earthly use spiders can be.”
“They keep down flies,” said Wendover, instructively.
“So they do. Illuminating idea! I wish I’d thought of it myself. They keep down flies!”
“When you’ve quite finished being funny, perhaps you’ll get on with your job, Clinton. You’re supposed to be detecting murderers, not delivering lectures on insects.”
Sir Clinton dropped his jesting tone at once.
“Quite right. We ought to be getting along to the police-station now.”
“Aren’t you going to do any more here?”
“No.”
“What about bringing up that dog of yours and seeing if it can do anything?”
“The dog could do nothing in this case,” said Sir Clinton, definitely. “It would be a mere waste of time.”
“Well, you seem to know your own mind about that,” Wendover said rather wonderingly. “I suppose you know best. But I’d have thought it worth trying.”
Sir Clinton made no reply, but led the way through the Maze to the car.
“We’ll call at the police-station on the road home, Squire, if you’ll run us round there. I’m expecting some more reports. And some men must come up here and search for anything left about—not that it really matters. By the way,” he added, casually, “I suppose you know who the murderer is by this time?”
Wendover could only express astonishment at the question.
“Well, you’ve had every chance,” was all that Sir Clinton would vouchsafe.
“If you know who he is, why don’t you arrest him at once?” Wendover demanded.
“There’s a big gap between knowing a thing and proving it,” said Sir Clinton, cautiously.
At the police-station the Chief Constable got out of the car and went in to interview his subordinates. In a minute or two he was back again, with some papers in his hands; and they drove on to the Grange.
“I’ve just time to ring up Ardsley before going upstairs,” he said, when they arrived; and he disappeared in the direction of the telephone. Wendover noticed that this time Sir Clinton closed the door of the room behind him, instead of leaving it ajar as he had done on the previous occasions; so that no sound came out during the conversation.
“I wonder what he’s up to with that confounded Jack-the-Ripper,” Wendover speculated uneasily, as he went upstairs to dress. “Well, perhaps he’ll tell me something after dinner.”
But when they had settled themselves in their easy chairs after dinner, he found that Sir Clinton evidently intended to reverse the roles.
“Now then, Squire, you’re under no restraint of official secrecy. What do you make of the affair so far?”
“I see. I’m to be Watson, and then you’ll prove what an ass I am. I’m not over keen.”
Sir Clinton hastened to reassure him.
“I’m not going to poke fun at you merely for the sake of making you uncomfortable, Squire. It would really be some help if I could see the thing from a fresh point of view. Lord knows, I’m not
