"But you asked me to—''
"You go out in that passage," H.M. ordered sternly, "and you wait there till I talk to you. You've served the purpose. Now the garden's lovely. Sling your hook."
Martin felt no surprise now when he remembered having heard that Chief Inspectors sometimes came within an ace of murdering Sir Henry Merrivale. He knew why. Deeply he could sympathize. In fact as his eye caught a bowl of Jell-o on the sideboard, he wondered how its contents would look if they were tastefully pressed down on H.M.'s skull.
But he went out into the passage and closed the door.
"You've served the purpose." What purpose? Why had he been brought to see the Puckstons? He was beginning to suspect H.M. of a purpose in everything, but what purpose in this?
The long passage, with its single dim lamp, lay shadowy and deeply cool. At the other end of it lounged Masters himself, with the hotel-entrance door wide open to the fragrant night. Masters's face was a mask of inquiry as Martin joined him.
"Don't ask me what happened," the latter begged. "He's verified what he wants to verify. Do you understand?"
"Do I!" Masters growled with fervour.
Yet the Chief Inspector, or what could be seen of him in dimness, appeared serene, breathing the fragrant air, almost humming a tune and smiling. Martin pointed southwards.
"By the way, what's that whitish glow, away over there? In the direction of Brayle Manor?"