Constable Cole, pursued by the sniggering laugh of Moriarty, left the kitchen and went into the day room. Miss Blow had made herself quite at home. On the iron-legged table with which the police barrack was provided lay her hat, her jacket, and her gloves. She was knitting a silk tie, meant perhaps as a present for her father, perhaps as an adornment for the corpse of Dr. O’Grady when she found it. Constable Cole drew himself up stiffly to attention and addressed her—
“I beg your pardon, miss, but Sergeant Farrelly will be obliged to you if you’ll lend him the loan of the note that Lord Manton gave you. He’s thinking of sending a man over to Ballymoy to the D. I.”
“What’s a D. I.?” asked Miss Blow.
“He’s an officer, miss, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Goddard.”
“Is he your superior officer?”
“He is, miss.”
“Then I’ll go and see him myself, and take the note with me.”
The reply was quite unexpected. Constable Cole hesitated.
“It’s better than twelve miles of a drive,” he said, “and the road’s none too good. And it could be, miss, that the D. I. might be off somewhere, shooting or the like, when you got there, and then you wouldn’t find him.”
“If he is out, I shall wait for him.”