“She said Crown Prince,” persisted Mr. Foster. One gathered that, in Mr. Foster’s opinion, what she said went.
“That’s right,” ventured the constable. “All covered with ribbons an’ things, he was. Medals, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Tl! take your statement later, Graves,” boomed the Inspector. The constable retired.
“Crown Prince,” repeated Mr. Foster, with the air of one clinching a point.
The Inspector was only too ready to have the point clinched. He clinched it in his notebook. “Yes, sir?” he cooed. If a corpse and two murderers make a sergeant, what does not a Crown Prince and a whole gang make an Inspector? Besides, somebody was sure to turn up.
Mr. Foster continued, rapidly and with purpose.
“Man with the Broken Nose?” gloated the Inspector, and moistened his pencil once more.
With reluctance Mr. Foster brought his story to a conclusion. As if he had timed his entrance for the same moment (which, in point of fact, he had) Mr. Doyle strolled casually into the room.
“Hallo, Nesbitt,” he said, as if not noticing the other three. “Saw your lights on and your library windows open, so I walked over. Hope you don’t mind. George wanted to know rather particularly whether you could—but am I interrupting a conference or something?”
“Not a bit,” said Guy heartily. “Let me introduce you. Mr. Foster, Inspector Cottingham—Mr. Doyle. You’ve just come at the right moment, Doyle. The most extraordinary things have been happening here this evening.”