“He is that,” Roger agreed with feeling. “But I don’t see how I can fail to convince even him. The facts ought to do that for themselves. Of course the solution isn’t capable of cast-iron proof, that’s the only trouble; but if it comes to that, what solution that depends only on circumstantial evidence ever can be? And proof hasn’t necessarily got to be cast-iron, it only needs to be reasonably convincing; and that mine certainly is.”
“Good egg!” quoth Anthony with satisfaction.
In the hall of the inn the landlord intercepted them.
“There’s a gentleman come to see Inspector Moresby,” he said. “I told him he was out, but he wanted to wait, so I said he could wait in your sitting-room, thinking you wouldn’t mind, gents.”
“Of course not,” Roger concurred. “Did he leave his name?”
“Well, there wasn’t no need for him to do that,” replied the landlord quite seriously. “I know who ’e is, you see. It’s young Mr. Woodthorpe.”
Roger and Anthony exchanged glances. “Oh, yes?” said the former. “Well, no doubt the inspector will be in soon. Thank you, landlord.—And what the devil,” he observed to Anthony, as they made their way up the stairs, “does young Mr. Woodthorpe want? We’d better go in and see.”
Young Mr. Woodthorpe was standing by the window, his usually ruddy face decidedly pale and set in grim lines. He wheeled round abruptly as they entered the room.
“Hullo! You wanted to see Inspector Moresby?” Roger greeted him pleasantly.
Woodthorpe nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Will he be long?”