“There I am with you,” Cyril B. Carnthwacke said grimly. “How did that fellow find out where Mrs. Carnthwacke was journeying and when? There's where I should like you to put me wise.”
“He may not have arranged anything beforehand. It may have been a sudden thing when he saw the carriage,” Inspector Furnival hazarded.
“Don't you bet your bottom dollar on that, old chap!” Carnthwacke admonished, puffing away at his big cigar. “He don't go about with a drop of chloroform and a nice long piece of ribbon handy in his pocket any more than other folks, I guess. It just figures out like this—some of our folks here must be acquainted with this guy, and put him wise to Mrs. Carnthwacke's movements.”
“Yes, I think there can be no doubt you are right about that,” John Steadman assented deliberately. “What of Mrs. Carnthwacke's maid?”
“Came over with us from the States,” the American told him. “And she is devoted to Mrs. Carnthwacke. No flies on her.”
“No young man?” the inspector questioned.
“Not the shadow of one,” Carnthwacke told him, leaning back in his chair and watching his cigar smoke curl up to the ceiling.
“No great friend?”
“Never heard of one. Of course I don't say she has no acquaintance, but she is one of the sort that keeps herself to herself, as you say over here.”
“Next thing is the chauffeur and footman,” the inspector went on. “I should like a talk with them. It seems inconceivable that they should not have seen this man get in or out.”