“Anthony,” observed his cousin, “your ideas are sometimes nearly as good as mine.”
Anthony removed himself to the lower regions and returned with the wherewithal for celebrating the occasion fittingly. In the intervals of celebration, they continued to discuss the case, the inspector now paying ungrudging acknowledgments to his unprofessional rival’s acumen and ingenuity. Roger decided that after all he really liked that hitherto somewhat maddening man very much indeed.
Half-an-hour or so later the recipient of Roger’s new affection put down his glass with a sigh and looked at his watch. “Well,” he said with deep regret, “I suppose I’ll have to be getting along.”
“To interview Woodthorpe?” said Roger in some surprise. “But surely there’s no hurry about that?”
“When a man bothers to confess to a double murder, the least one can do is to ask him why,” the inspector pointed out. “It’s merely a matter of form, I know, but I think I ought to get it done to-night. I’ve got a motor-bicycle outside; it won’t take me a minute. By the way, Mr. Sheringham, how do you account for that, I wonder?”
“Woodthorpe’s confession?” said Roger thoughtfully. “Yes, that is a little puzzling, I admit. But you do get all sorts of comic people confessing to crimes they haven’t committed, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; they’re always doing it. Sort of muddled mentality, I suppose. But you wouldn’t call Mr. Woodthorpe a comic person, would you?”
“No, I certainly shouldn’t. There’s only one other explanation that I can see—a super-quixotic sense of chivalry. The village gossip must have reached him, and he would naturally be acquainted with the other members of the Vane ménage.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head again,” the inspector agreed. “That must be the explanation. No doubt the report in the village is that I’m going to make an arrest at any minute.”
“But super-quixotic, for all that,” Roger smiled. “Now if it had been Anthony who had made the confession I should have understood it much better.”