But one look proved satisfactory.
“I’m sorry—I’m wrong,” muttered Anthony, “I can’t help you.”
The Inspector smiled at his apparent discomfiture. He seemed agreeably relieved to discover that A. L. Bathurst was human after all; and followed on to the next stage of his investigation.
“I think that will do for the time being then, Mr. Considine,” he said. “And ask if I can see—in order, if you please”—he referred to some notes that he took from the pocket of his lounge jacket, “first Mr. Robertson, then Mr. Daventry, and then Mr. Tennant?”
Robertson entered. He hadn’t bargained for this when he accepted the invitation to Considine Manor.
He could tell the Inspector nothing, except what he knew concerning the cards. He could not identify the writing of the letter.
He had known Prescott at Oxford—just casually—that was all. He had slept soundly, only to be awakened by Marshall’s scream, as we had all been.
Daventry and Tennant, in turn followed him, only to be similarly ignorant and similarly dismissed.
Baddeley sipped a glass of port and munched a biscuit. Sir Charles followed suit approvingly.
“Well, what now, Inspector?” he remarked. “We appear to have reached an impasse. What is your opinion now?”