They laughed.
“Inspector,” said Roger softly, “can’t you forget for once that you’re a member of an official body and be human? I found that shoe for you. Isn’t it up to you to let me know what the result of the few enquiries is? Not for publication, of course, unless you say the word.”
The inspector struggled for a moment with his official reticence. “Very well, Mr. Sheringham,” he said. “That’s fair enough.”
“Sportsman!” Roger approved as they parted.
Before they had progressed fifty yards in opposite directions, Roger had turned and was running back again. “Inspector!” he called. “Half a minute!”
The inspector turned and waited for him, “Yes, sir?”
“There’s one thing I’ve always been meaning to ask a real live police inspector,” Roger panted, “and always forgetting at the crucial moment. What do you really think at Scotland Yard of detective stories?”
The inspector ruminated. “Well, sir,” he said darkly, “we must have our amusements, I suppose, like everyone else.”
This time they really did part.
The inspector did not return to the inn for lunch, and Roger and Anthony ate a somewhat silent meal, each having plenty to occupy his own thoughts. Roger debated for a short time whether to depute some of the enquiry work, which now seemed to be assuming gigantic proportions, to his cousin, but decided on consideration that rather more delicate handling was required than Anthony would probably be able to bring to it. That young man therefore found himself with the afternoon off duty once more, whereupon he announced casually that he might not be back for tea and made a few guarded enquiries as to the possibility of hiring a two-seater in Ludmouth, just in case one happened to want to see something of the country round. By a superhuman effort Roger managed to refrain from all attempts to amuse himself.