“No. Which is why I thought it worth while to show you those two. Looks as if nothing came of the proposal. I wondered if perhaps the Squire refused to do business, and whether there might have been bad blood between him and Warrenby over it,” said Harbottle slowly, frowning over it.
“And then Warrenby started pinching the gravel for his client when no one was looking, and so the Squire up and shot him. Really, Horace, I'm surprised at you!”
“If I'd meant anything of the kind, you might well be! Unless you think such folly is catching!” retorted Harbottle.
Hemingway laughed. “Not bad!” he said. “But I've got something better to do than to stay here listening to you being insubordinate. Keep at it! You may find something, though I doubt it. I'll send young Morebattle in to give you a hand.”
“You're not taking him to Thornden, sir?”
“No, I don't need him. He's all yours, Horace.”
“I shall be glad of him,” admitted the Inspector, casting a jaundiced eye over the work awaiting him.
Hemingway left him, and walked back to the police-station. Sergeant Carsethorn had not yet returned from Thornden, but the Station-Sergeant had news for the Chief Inspector. He said, with a twinkle in his eye: “Got a message for you, sir.”
Hemingway regarded him shrewdly. “You have, have you? Now, come on! Out with it, and don't stand there grinning!”
“Sorry, sir! It's from Mr. Drybeck,” said the Sergeant solemnly.