“That’s right, there must have been. Mind you, Cottingham, I don’t imagine that the thing was planned with the intention of deceiving us. Graves’ intervention seems to me purely fortuitous. I shouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t all directed against the Nesbitts; or even against that fellow who was in the room with the girl. She was in it all right. That’s how the thing looks to me.”
“Well, there might be something in that, sir, yes,” conceded the Inspector handsomely.
The Colonel lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the river. “Still, it’s impossible to say either way yet. We must hear what this blighter Foster’s got to say for himself; ought not to be difficult to get him to give himself away. We’ll do that this afternoon.”
Colonel Ratcliffe was no fool. His reasoning had been sound and, up to a point, perfectly correct. But unfortunately, the two brains pitted against his were just a shade shrewder; they also had the advantage of being perfectly unscrupulous. It was these two facts which caused the Colonel’s reasoning to deflect from the line of correctness and come to an end at the person of Reginald Foster, Esq.
He began to stroll towards the road. “You know, Cottingham,” he remarked, “I don’t really know what we’re going to do with this feller Foster. We could arrest him, I suppose, and charge him with contempt of police or something like that; but we’d only make laughing-stocks of ourselves if we did. So far as I can see what we’d better do is to frighten him out of his wits and let him go. I fancy The Courier and Doyle between them will see to it that he doesn’t get off too lightly.”
If the Inspector was going to protest vehemently against this proposed clemency, or if he then and there violently made up his mind to be no party to it, he gave no sign at the moment, for two figures had suddenly sprung into sight in the gateway between the two gardens, and were now leisurely strolling towards them. Mr. Doyle and Guy had indeed been at some pains, by means of a careful watch maintained for nearly an hour, to choose this particular moment to learn the result of their venture.
“Good-morning, Colonel,” Guy began politely. “Well, any news?”
The Colonel looked as innocent as a new-born infant. “News?” he repeated, as if not quite sure what the word meant.
Guy was much too cunning himself to introduce the subject of footprints. He said nothing.
“Would you rather I retired, Colonel?” smiled Doyle. “I know that all official persons seem to have a good deal of difficulty in talking in my presence. It’s a rotten business being a journalist. Everybody treats one with suspicion.”