And now, at Sir Clinton’s change of attitude, he caught a glimpse of a fresh side. It seemed that the line of thought which he had suggested might lead to something definite. It was no longer a case of idle speculation about the criminality of Mr. X or the guilt of Mr. Y. Instead, it was a question whether that rather decent young fellow Howard Torrance was going to find his neck in a noose one of these fine mornings. His own speculations might be the starting-point for a fresh line of detection. It came upon him with something of oppression that in his position with regard to Sir Clinton, his speculations might be put to practical use. Situated as he was, it was hardly so irresponsible a position as he had supposed.
But at this point in his train of thought a fresh idea occurred to him.
“Clinton said he knew who the murderer is. So my speculations don’t matter much. But it would have been a bad business if I’d turned suspicion on young Torrance. He might have had a lot of difficulty in clearing himself, if Clinton had taken up that line.”
Sir Clinton broke in at this moment.
“You don’t suspect Miss Forrest, I suppose!”
“No.”
All the amusement had gone out of the game, so far as Wendover was concerned; but Sir Clinton seemed to have no inkling of this, and pursued his way through the list.
“Then that leaves Costock,” he pointed out.
“I don’t think Costock did it,” Wendover declared. He felt inclined to turn his criticism into the other camp now. “What have you against Costock? Can you bring any evidence to show that he had curare in hand? Or that he had an airgun? Or even that he was in the Maze at all at the time of the murders?”
“If that’s your line,” said Sir Clinton, with a noncommittal gesture, “we’ll say no more about it. I’ll look after Costock. Now there’s one name left—Ardsley. You’d better leave Ardsley to me, Squire. You’re far too apt to see red on that subject. You couldn’t produce an unbiased view of him if you tried.”
“Have you any evidence about his movements that afternoon?” Wendover asked, perfunctorily.
Sir Clinton also seemed to have grown tired of the business.
“You’ll find Ardsley’s name pretty prominent in the Whistlefield business when it’s all cleared up, I think. But I’m not prepared at present to say exactly what his part in the affair may turn out to be in the end.”
Wendover was only too glad to let the matter rest at this point. Irresponsible speculation is one thing; speculation which may lead up to a death sentence is something quite different. Suppose his ingenious reasoning—he had to admit that some of it was ingenious—were to lead to a wrongful conviction? He hadn’t quite seen it in that light before. It was all very well for Clinton to go in for theorising. It was his job to find the criminal and convict him. But Wendover had begun to feel that it was hardly for an amateur to step in and take a hand. Why, already he had light-heartedly thrown out suspicions against several people; and obviously some, at least, of these suspicions must be baseless. He would keep out of the field in future, he resolved.
But there was still one point in connection with the Whistlefield case which had given him a good deal of perplexity. It threw no suspicion on anyone. He decided to clear it up if possible.
“There’s one thing I’ve been thinking over,” he began. “Why did you pretend you’d forgotten those darts on the museum mantelpiece, when all the time you’d left them there deliberately? You acted the part pretty well, Clinton. You took me in completely at the first rush. I thought it was real vexation over a genuine mistake. But when I’d had time to think about it, I saw plainly enough that you’d done it on purpose. You’re not the sort that makes silly mistakes of that kind.”
Sir Clinton came out of his reserve at once.
“I’m not fooling now, Squire,” he said gravely. “I’m absolutely serious. I’ve staked my main case on that affair. I’m not able to tell you how or why at present. But you mustn’t breathe a word about it to a living soul, no matter what happens next.”
Wendover, in that moment, had a glimpse of a rarely-displayed side of Sir Clinton’s character. It convinced him, without further argument.
“Very good. Nobody will learn it from me.”
“You may find it pretty difficult to hold your tongue, Squire; but I trust you to do it. The temptation will probably be very strong before long. I’m hoping for the best; but I warn you that I’m expecting some pretty black work at Whistlefield before we’re through with this business. I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of Ernest Shandon’s affair; but the next one may not have much fun about it. You can take my word for it that Tragedy’s in the wings, now, waiting for its cue. So, no matter what happens, keep a tight grip on your tongue. You’re the only one who could spot that I was acting then. Nobody at Whistlefield knows anything about me. They took me for a blundering idiot. And that’s precisely what I wanted.”
XII
The Fourth Attack
“I see the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown,” Wendover remarked. “I suppose it’s the only verdict that would fit the case. They seemed to think you’d been rather slack in not having it all cut and dried for them, Clinton. Quite obviously they wanted the murderer’s head on a charger, and they were disappointed when you couldn’t produce the article.”
“I think they were disappointed that we hadn’t given them more evidence than we did,” Sir Clinton suggested with a certain indifference in his tone. “They seemed to imagine that the whole affair had been got up
