“Not saying anything to Margaret about friend Colin’s letter. A most admirable piece of self-restraint.”
A lusty hail from Roger brought the inspector to a standstill. He halted and waited for them to catch up with him.
“It’s a hot day for running about, gentlemen,” he greeted them mopping his large red face. “Uncommonly hot.”
“You’re right, Inspector. And has virtue brought its own reward, or have you got any news?”
“I have got some news, sir, I’m glad to say. I’ve succeeded in locating the gentleman who wrote that letter. Been a bit of a job, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found him this time.”
“You have, have you? I say, that’s good! Who is he?”
“Gentleman by the name of Colin Woodthorpe; son of a Sir Henry Woodthorpe who’s got a big place between here and Sandsea. I thought of going round to call on him this evening.”
“Good,” said Roger promptly. “May I come?”
“It’s a bit irregular, sir.”
“I know it is. Frightfully irregular. But you do owe me something over the letter, don’t you?”