They did not retire at once, however. They waited till the three actors on their stage met and stopped. The words came faintly to them: “I say, are you the Inspector? I read about you in the Sunday Courier. I’m Mrs. Nesbitt’s brother. I say, were you going to have a look at the scene of the crime? I say, have you noticed something jolly important about those footprints? I have. I’ll tell you if you like. I told my brother-in-law, but he laughed. It’s jolly well nothing to laugh about. I say, do you know if that chap Foster’s ever broken his nose?”
The two in the garden began to stroll towards George’s house.
“He might have been coached for the part,” observed Mr. Doyle with some awe.
“He wouldn’t have done it as well if he had been,” murmured Guy. “Doyle, this is all very pleasant and interesting, isn’t it?”
They went in to warn Dora that policemen were about. She was not there.
To tell the truth, Dora had found herself, except for short minutes during the last thirty-six hours, frankly bored. In addition she was not altogether satisfied with the part she had played in the comedy; it was all right, so far as it went, but it had not gone far enough. She thought she saw a way of combining amusement with a little helpful spadework. Unnoticed, she had slipped out of the house and gone off to combine them.
Chapter XIV.
Interesting Scene in a Tool-Shed
Reginald Foster was surveying his garden. Every morning, when it was fine, Reginald Foster surveyed his garden, and both of them felt the better for it; Mr. Foster, because the garden, which was a large one, stood for his success in life and Mr. Foster liked surveying his successes; the garden, because surely nothing could come under Mr. Foster’s benignant survey and not feel the better for it. Mr. Foster strolled slowly round the neat paths, his podgy hands clasped behind his back, and continued to survey benignly.
From a window at the back of the fat red house behind him Mrs. Foster was also doing a little surveying. She was a tepid, pale-haired little woman, and she knitted a good deal, persistently and quite unnecessarily. She was not one of Mr. Foster’s successes.
It was not that Mrs. Foster was not patient, for she was; it was not that she had not made Mr. Foster a good wife, for she had begun to live with him nearly thirty years ago and was still doing so, nor had she yet ever committed suicide; she even endured his talk without screaming violently or running for the nearest razor. And yet she was not a success. She had not worn very well, it is true, but that was not enough to justify these harsh words; her once pretty hair was now lankly nondescript, her face a little flaccid, and her eyes very weary and resigned. She looked, in fact, not unlike a disillusioned mouse; but even the most disillusioned of mice will show signs of emotion before cheese or cats. Mrs. Foster never showed signs of any emotion at all.