Cynthia and Alan were not missed at Duffley. Monica, for instance, was far too busy taking an intelligent interest in the workings of George’s car to miss them. Not in George himself, of course not, though he was interesting on the subject of cars, George was. And actresses. And the relations of a man and a girl these days. “Jolly nice, feeling one can be real pals with a girl nowadays. Rotten it must have been for those old Victorians, eh? What I mean is, a man likes to feel a girl can be a sort of pal, so to speak. Jolly to go out with and all that. Of course you can’t be pals with all girls, though. Fact is, I’ve never really met another one beside you that I could, Monica. Comic when you come to think of it, in a way, isn’t it? Here we are, just pals, all merry and bright, going out in the old bus and having a good time, and everything’s absolutely ripping. I say, Monica, I’m dashed glad you came down here, you know. I was getting bored stiff with Duffley, and that silly stunt of Guy’s was worse still. I mean to say, what I really wanted, I suppose, was a pal.”
And Monica listened very seriously and thought it all extremely original and clever of him. She did not introduce the subject of her soul because, luckily for George, she was not that sort of girl; but she inaugurated some very deep conversation about carburetters and magnetos, which came to much the same thing.
Unlike London, Thursday morning at Duffley was peacefulness itself. Then, on Thursday afternoon, came the Chief Constable, bringing with him a tall stranger. The stranger was dressed in a suit notable more for its wearing qualities than its cut, and he had large boots and a disconcertingly piercing eye. In a voice of undeniable authority he requested the presence of Guy and Mr. Doyle in the library. Polite but mystified, they humoured him.
Then the Colonel spoke. He said: “Gentlemen, this is Superintendent Peters, of Scotland Yard. He wants to ask you a few questions.”
Guy and Mr. Doyle did not exchange glances, because neither dared look at the other; but something like the same thought was in both their minds. The thought might be represented in general terms as a large question-mark, and, more particularly, by: “Good Lord! Is this going to prove the cream of the whole jest, or—is it not?”
For at least ten minutes the newcomer took no notice at all of the two, while the Colonel explained in minute detail exactly what had happened in the room, the position of the body, and all other necessary details. Guy and Mr. Doyle found this a trifle disconcerting. From being keyed up suddenly to the topmost pitch of their powers they found themselves beginning, through sheer inaction, to waver on their top note.
When the Colonel, in his description of events, reached the Constable’s entry upon the scene and his handling of the apparent culprits, the Superintendent cut him short with some abruptness.
“Yes, yes,” he said, with a touch of impatience. “We needn’t go into that, Colonel.”
The Colonel’s surprise was obvious. “But Graves is the only witness we have for those two,” he said.
“And a perfectly unimportant witness,” snapped the other, in the best detective-story manner. “Except as witnesses themselves, these two have no bearing on the business. Their story was perfectly true; like your man, they came on the scene immediately after the shot had been fired. If the constable had had the intelligence of a louse he’d have realised that and not frightened them off as he did. We’ve traced ’em all right now, but it wasn’t any too easy.”