Major Hornby flung the letter on the library table contemptuously. “I do not! It’s not addressed to me, and therefore has nothing whatever to do with me. Also, I’ll wish you a very good-morning.” He left us!
“Tut, tut,” commented Sir Charles. “This is very unfortunate!”
Anthony smiled. Then burst into laughter.
“Sorry I don’t possess your irresistible charm of manner, Mr. Bathurst, nor yet your keen sense of humor,” put in Baddeley. “If all people were like that specimen that has just departed, Justice wouldn’t often be appeased and many murderers would survive to exult over their crimes. I’m not sure, however, that he hasn’t proved of some assistance. In murder, motive must always be pursued first. To whose benefit was the death of this man Prescott? A burglar? Or somebody inside the house? Which? When I can answer correctly to those two questions, I shall be nearer a solution. For both have possibilities.” He paused. Then turned to Sir Charles again.
“I hope Captain Arkwright will prove more reasonable.”
Sir Charles replied.
“My son-in-law will help you all he can ... for my sake.”
Now Dick Arkwright was a white man. One of the best, all the way through, and I felt assured that whatever his father-in-law’s wishes were he would fall into line. His marriage with Helen Considine had been a love-match and it was patent to all observers that it had brought no regrets with it. His consideration for his wife carried with it consideration for the members of her family, particularly for the head thereof.
“Captain Arkwright,” said Baddeley, “I have very little to ask you, and as a consequence, I will not detain you for more than a few moments. That is of course assuming that you have nothing to tell us?” He paused.
“I am sorry to think that I am unable to help you, Inspector, by supplying any facts of importance, beyond those with which you are already acquainted,” Arkwright said.