“Ah!”
“For one thing, you see,” the inspector added with a smile, “the evidence against her isn’t quite complete yet.”
“But look here, you don’t mean to say you still think that she may have⸺”
The inspector waved aside the awkward question with a large hand. “I’m not going to say what I think about that, even to you, Mr. Sheringham. But one word of warning I will give you, to pass on to your cousin or not as you think fit—things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Ah!” Roger observed. “In other words, I suppose, ladies strongly under suspicion on circumstantial evidence aren’t necessarily guilty after all. Is that what you mean?”
“Well, sir,” replied the inspector, who seemed not a little pleased with his conundrum, “that’s all I’ve got to say. What I mean, you must decide for yourself.”
“Inspector, you’re hopeless!” Roger laughed, turning back to the sitting-room.
Anthony was brooding darkly over his empty cheese-plate.
“I say, Roger,” he said at once, looking up, “does that damned inspector still think that Margaret had anything to do with it?”
“No, I don’t imagine so, really. He may, but I’m more inclined to think that he’s pulling our legs about her—yours especially. And you are a bit of a trout over Margaret, aren’t you, Anthony? You rise to any fly that he dangles over you.”