“Of course we’re on the right track. How could we be anything else? The evidence is overwhelming. As a matter of fact,” Roger added thoughtfully, “I believe I can make a pretty good guess as to what actually happened last night.”
“Oh? What?”
“Why, friend Prince, naturally somewhat elated at winning a prize at the show, got drinking with some of the new pals he must have picked up here and had a couple of drops too much. On his way back he passes Layton Court and either rattles the side door and notices it ajar; in any case, walks in and up to the French windows, which are open. Stanworth, who we know was mortally afraid of him, jumps at his appearance and threatens him with a revolver. In the struggle, Stanworth is shot, either on purpose or accidentally. That sobers friend Prince up more than a little, and, with the cunning we know him to possess, he sets the stage for us to find the next morning. How’s that?”
“It’s quite possible,” Alec admitted. “But what I want to know is—how are we going to tackle Prince now?”
“Wait and see what happens. I shall get into conversation with him and try to get him to account for his movements last night. If he gets obstreperous, we shall simply have to lay him out; that’s all. You’ll come in useful there, by the way.”
“Humph!” Alec observed.
“In any case,” Roger concluded enthusiastically, “it’s going to be dashed exciting. You can take my word for that.”
There was no mistaking Hillcrest Farm. It lay on the top of a sharp rise just as the landlord had described it. The two instinctively slackened their steps as they approached, as if unconsciously reconnoitring the scene of battle.
“I don’t want to enlist Wetherby just yet,” Roger murmured. “I think we ought to try and tackle him ourselves. And we don’t want to give the alarm in any case, or arouse any suspicions. That’s why I didn’t put hundreds more questions to that landlord. What do you think?”
“Oh, absolutely. What about asking that old chap if he knows where Prince is?”