“Oh, well, that's different! What's he want?”
“Told me to give you this, sir—and to be careful how I handled it, because he found it close to the scene of the crime. In some long grass by the gorse-clump. He was quite put out not to find you here. Said at first that he'd look in later, but I told him we wasn't expecting you in, not till this evening.”
“You're wasted down here, my lad,” said Hemingway approvingly. “What's he found? A hairpin, which he thinks must have belonged to Miss Warrenby?”
The Sergeant, who had produced from the drawer of the high desk some small object wrapped in a linen handkerchief, looked up quickly. “If I may say so, sir, you're on to things pretty sharp!”
“I've no objection, but you're not going to tell me that is what he found, are you?”
“No, sir,” said the Sergeant, unfolding the handkerchief. “But when he decided to leave it in my charge he told me to draw your attention to the initial.”
“You'd have to, wouldn't you?” said Hemingway, surveying with an expression of revulsion a powder-compact made of pink plastic with the letter M superimposed in imitation rubies.
“He said,” continued the Sergeant carefully, “that it was not for him to draw conclusions, and he would leave the matter in your hands.”
“Well, that's handsome of him, at all events. I'd give something to see Sergeant Carsethorn's face when he hears he missed this in his search for that cartridge-case. You'd better put a notice outside the station saying a valuable compact has been found. I daresay some girl's boy-friend gave it to her, and she'd like it back.”
“Do you mean that, sir?”