“Meaning?” he said.
“Meaning that supposititious figure on the hill, about which Mr. Fyler was so inquisitive at the Inquest, but which he seemed most unaccountably to overlook before the magistrates.”
“Ah!” said the detective drily, “I expect he’d come to the conclusion, which was my own, that it wasn’t really worth another thought.”
“O! so I’m mistaken in fancying any association between that and your particular mission? Well, well, it shall be a lesson to my self-sufficiency. By the by, Sergeant, we’ve never had our long-deferred game of chess. What do you say to a duel now while we’re waiting?”
“No time, sir. Chess takes a lot of thought.”
“So it does. But it can be sampled in a problem. These tests are rather a weakness of mine. Look here,”—he led the way to the window, which, it being a mild warm day, stood wide open, and in which was placed the usual table with the board on it, and half a dozen pieces on the squares—“there’s a neat one, I flatter myself. I was at work on it when you came in—black Knight (or dark horse, shall we call it?) to play, and mate in three moves. Take the opposition, and see if you can prevent it.”
He moved the Knight; mechanically the detective put down his hand and responded with a Bishop: at the Baron’s third move the other looked up, and looked his adversary full in the face. Le Sage had stepped back. He had a way sometimes of thrusting his hands into the tail pockets of his coat, and bringing them round in front of him. So he stood now, with a curious smile on his lips.
“Dark horse wins,” said he. “My mate, I think, Sergeant John Ridgway.”
The door opened with the word, spoken pretty loudly, and there came quickly into the room an inspector and two constables of the local police, followed by Sir Calvin and another gentleman.
“I have the pleasure,” said M. le Baron to the new-comers, “of introducing to you the murderer of Annie Evans, alias Ivy Mellor.”