“Ask on,” said Anthony. “I’m your man.”
“Well, I feel like this, Sir Charles and gentlemen, this isn’t an ordinary case. Can any of you; you, Sir Charles, Mr. Bathurst, Mr. Cunningham—or you, gentlemen”—he turned towards Arkwright and Jack—“tell me of anything you know that puts any motive into this affair? Any incident that throws any light on it whatsoever?”
We shook our heads.
“Frankly, Inspector,”—Anthony spoke for us—“we are as much in the dark regarding the whole affair as you yourself are.”
Baddeley went on.
“Very well, gentlemen. Then we know where we are. But I may as well tell you that Mr. Prescott was in the garden last night—after 12 o’clock—and he was not alone! But I’ll find out who was with him! And what’s more, I’ll find the scoundrel that murdered him!” He squared his shoulders.
“You’re certain of what you just told us?” queried Anthony.
“I am.”
“How are you certain?”
“That’s my business, Mr. Bathurst. Try your hand at finding things out yourself.”