Ten minutes' walk brought the Chief Inspector to Sampson Warrenby's office. A guide was offered, but as he was informed that he had only to cross the market-place to South Street, which was the main shopping-street in Bellingham, and to walk down it until he reached East Street, which intersected it, he declined the offer, and set off alone. A large number of country omnibuses were ranked in the market-place, and South Street was already congested with all those who had come into the town to do the week's shopping. Hemingway caught a glimpse of Miss Patterdale, stalking into a grocer's, with a large basket on her arm; and a minute later he met Gavin Plenmeller, emerging from the portals of a bank.
“Good heavens! Scotland Yard in person!” exclaimed Gavin, causing everyone within earshot to turn and stare avidly at Hemingway. “But what are you doing, frittering away your time in idle sightseeing, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, it's easy to see why you aren't, so to say, popular with Sergeant Carsethorn, sir,” said Hemingway, eyeing him grimly. “Pity you forgot your megaphone!”
Gavin laughed. “I am so sorry!” he mocked, and passed on up the street.
Hemingway proceeded on his way, and soon arrived at Sampson Warrenby's office in East Street. Here he was received by a junior clerk, and afforded two stenographers and the office boy their second thrill of the day. All three contrived to catch a glimpse of him, as he was led to Sampson Warrenby's room, and although the glimpse was a brief one it was sufficient to enable the elder of the two damsels to state that he had eyes that looked right through you, and to convince the younger that if she were summoned before him to answer any questions she wouldn't be able to speak a word, on account of her being very high-strung, as anyone who knew her could testify. The office boy said in a very boastful way that it would take more than a C.I.D. man to scare him, after which he went off to the Post Office with two unimportant letters, his mind being troubled with a horrid fear that from so high-ranking an official not one of his youthful peccadilloes could remain hidden.
Meanwhile, the Chief Inspector had joined his subordinate in Sampson Warrenby's room, and had made the acquaintance of Mr. Coupland, the head clerk.
Mr. Coupland was a thin little man, with sparse, grizzled hair, and anxious face. He greeted the Chief Inspector nervously, and said: “This is a shocking business! I can't get over it. As I've been saying to the Inspector, I don't know what's going to happen, I'm sure, Mr. Warrenby not having a partner. It's very worrying, very! I really don't know what I ought to do. Not when we've cleared up what we have on hand.”
“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there,” said Hemingway. “Busy practice, this?”
“Oh, very! Very busy indeed!” Mr. Coupland said earnestly. “The biggest practice in Bellingham, and growing so—well, Mr. Warrenby was talking of having to take a partner. And now this! Well, I don't seem able to believe it's happened, and that's a fact!”
“Came as a surprise to you, did it?”