“I don't know that it does,” said Carnthwacke thoughtfully. “They are taught to keep their heads straight in front of them—the footman at least; and the chauffeur has enough to do in the traffic of London streets, I reckon, to look after himself and his car. However, you can have them as long as you like, but you won't get anything out of them. They swear they saw nothing and heard nothing, and that is all they will say. They were bothered with the traffic being diverted on all sides, and continually having to slow down, and of course it was this slowing down that gave the guy his chance. He must be a cool hand, that. Say, inspector, do you think it was this Yellow Dog the newspapers have a stunt about?”
“When we have caught the Yellow Dog I shall be able to tell you more about it,” the inspector replied evasively. “I will see your men, please, Mr. Carnthwacke. But before they come let me warn you again to be most careful not to allow it to be known that Mrs. Carnthwacke escaped with comparatively so little injury. Continue to represent her as lying at death's door, and let nobody but the doctor and nurses see her. I cannot exaggerate the importance of not allowing it to reach the ears of her would-be murderer that he has failed. We must look to it that not a breath as to her condition leaks out from us, Mr. Steadman.”
John Steadman was looking out of the window.
“I quite see your point, inspector. It is most important that we should not allow the faintest suspicion of the truth to leak out among our friends, especially——”
“Especially——?” Carnthwacke prompted.
John Steadman did not speak, but he turned his head and looked at the inspector.
“From the widow, Mrs. Bechcombe,” the detective finished.
Carnthwacke stared at him.
“Why Mrs. Bechcombe?”
“Because,” said the inspector very slowly and emphatically, “she might tell Miss Cecily Hoyle and——”