It was on the tip of my tongue to put him wise again—I thought of the letter fragments—but Anthony put a quick finger to his lips, unseen by the Inspector. I also caught the fleeting suggestion of a lowered eyelid. It then became evident to me that he did not intend to let Baddeley know what I had found in the bedroom. Neither had he mentioned Mary’s evidence about the mysterious watcher that she and Prescott had seen—in short, I realized that Anthony was only putting some of his cards on the table.
Baddeley led the way downstairs somewhat ruefully, I thought.
“I must thank you, Mr. Bathurst, for putting me wise on these points,” he said very frankly. “But if I was to say that I felt any nearer to a solution, because of them—well—I shouldn’t be taking a medal for veracity. Think I’d better start keeping rabbits. More in my line.”
“Don’t be too self-critical, Inspector. A little is good for all of us—but a little goes a long way, and too much of it is bad for one.”
Inspector Baddeley looked at him with no little chagrin.
“You mean what you say, kindly, I’ve no doubt, but I feel that I’d like to think quietly over what I’ve learned from you to-day. Somewhere, at my leisure—I get a bit bewildered unless I can go my own pace. So you won’t mind if I say ‘good-day’?” He held out his hand to us in farewell. “Good-day, Mr. Bathurst! Good-day, Mr. Cunningham!”
Anthony looked after him whimsically as he closed the door. Then we heard Sir Charles Considine’s voice booming out. “Hullo, Baddeley, what did you think of old Anselm? The inquest didn’t produce much that we didn’t know—eh—and also didn’t produce some that we did—what?” Baddeley appeared to murmur a reply that tickled Sir Charles’ humor.
“Very good. Very good! What do you think of that, Jack—eh, Arkwright?—good-bye, Baddeley.”
“Good-day, Sir Charles.” We heard the Inspector’s footsteps down the drive. I turned to Anthony.
“You deliberately kept Mary’s evidence from him, and you didn’t show him those letter fragments I found in the bedroom. Why?”