I think we were all sorry for the Baron; it appeared so obvious whither the trend of the detective’s inquiries must henceforth carry him. But he sat quite quiet, with only a smile on his face.
“Louis is not vindictive,” was the sole thing he contented himself with saying.
Sir Calvin turned to the detective. “Do you need Mrs. Bingley any more?”
“Not for the present,” answered the Sergeant, and the housekeeper left the room. I had expected from him, on her disappearance, some significant look or gesture, betokening his acceptance of the inevitable conclusion; but he made no such sign, and merely resumed his business conduct of the case. He knew better than we, no doubt, that in crime the most obvious is often the most unreliable.
“We must find the girl’s relations, if possible, Sir Calvin,” he said. “You can leave that to me, however. What I would advise, if her boxes yield no clue, would be an advertisement in the papers.”
An examination of some of the servants ensued upon this; but beyond the fact of their supplying corroborative testimony as to the quarrel, their evidence was of little interest, and I omit it here. The Baron disappeared during the course of the inquiry, so secretively that I think I was the only one who noticed his going. At the end the detective expressed a desire to examine the scene of the crime. If one of us, he said, would conduct him there, he would be satisfied and would ask no more. He did not want a crowd. I ventured to volunteer, and was accepted. Sir Calvin had looked towards his son; but Hugh, with reason sufficient, had declined to go. He had sat throughout the inquiry, after giving his own evidence, perfectly still, and with a sort of white small smile on his lips. Thinking my own thoughts, I was sorry for him.
The Sergeant and I made for the coppice. Passing the constable at the gun-room door, he nodded to him. “That’s a poor thing inside,” he said, as we went on. “What a lot of trouble she’d save if she could speak! Well, I suppose that him that did it thinks she’s got her deserts.” “I hope he’ll get his,” I answered. “Ah!” he agreed, “I hope he will.” We turned a bend as we came near the fatal beech-tree—and there was the Baron before us!
The detective stopped with a smart exclamation, then went on slowly.
“Doing a little amateur detective work on your own, sir?” he asked sarcastically.
“I was considering, my friend,” answered the Baron. “It becomes interesting to me, you see, since my man is involved.”