The Inspector, who had been expecting this, nodded. Almost bursting with curiosity, Constable Melkinthorpe slewed himself round in the driver's seat, and opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it again. Something told him that an indiscreet question addressed to Inspector Harbottle would earn the enquirer nothing but a blistering snub. “Hot, isn't it, sir?” he said weakly.
The Inspector opened the newspaper he had brought with him, and began to read it. “It often is at this time of year,” he replied.
Constable Melkinthorpe, lacking the courage to venture on any further remark, had to content himself with watching the Chief Inspector walk across the field towards Kenelm Lindale.
Lindale had seen him, but he did not go to meet him. After one glance, he resumed his conversation with the farmhand. As Hemingway came within earshot, he said: “Well, get on with that job first: I'll be along presently, and we'll take another look at it. Good afternoon, Chief Inspector! What can I do for you this time?”
“Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to come interrupting you, but I'd like a word with you, please.”
“All right. I suppose you'd better come up to the house.”
“Provided we can get out of range of the din this machine of yours makes, I'd just as soon talk to you here.”
“Infernal things, aren't they?” Lindale said, walking beside him towards the blackthorn hedge which separated the field from the one beyond it. “Give me the old-fashioned methods! But it's no use, these days. Now, what is it you want?”
“I'm going to be quite frank with you, sir, and, if you're wise, you'll be frank with me. Because what I have to ask you I can quite as easily ask Mrs. Lindale, which, I take it, you'd a lot rather I didn't do.”
“Go on!” said Lindale evenly.