“I can tell you don't think so, though.”
“I don't know, Horace. It sounds reasonable enough. I've just got a feeling there was more to it than that. Come on! We'll take a look at Biggleswade's favourite seat.”
They walked in a north-easterly direction, to where some silver-birch trees stood. Beyond them, the ground began to fall away more steeply, and a little way down the slope a wooden seat had been placed, commanding a good view over the common. It was not unoccupied. After one keen look, Hemingway said: “If it isn't old granddad himself! You'd better mind your p's and q's, Horace: he's inclined to be testy. Good-afternoon, Mr. Biggleswade! Taking the air?”
Mr. Biggleswade looked him over with scant favour. “And why shouldn't I be?” he demanded. “Tell me that!”
“I can't. What's eating you today, grandfather?”
“If I was your granddad you'd 'ave more sense nor wot you 'ave,” said the old gentleman severely. “I'm disappointed in you, that's wot. You're gormless. If you'd paid attention to wot I says to you, you'd 've 'ad the bracelets on young Reg Ditchling last night.”
“Don't you worry about him!” said Hemingway. “I've got my eye on him all right.”
“A fat lot of use that is!” said Mr. Biggleswade. “You 'aving your eye on 'im don't stop 'im coming up to my place, calling me out of me name—ah, an' fetching 'is as along of 'im, and that pair of screeching Jezebels, Gert and Edie, besides. Painted 'ussies, that's wot they are, and don't you let anyone tell you different! Oo's this you got with you?”
A rheumy gaze was bent upon Inspector Harbottle; a note of disparagement sounded in the aged voice. Hemingway said promptly: “You don't have to bother about him: he's just my assistant.”
“Six foot of misery, that's wot 'e looks like to me,” said Mr. Biggleswade, not mincing matters. “You don't want to let 'im get near the milk-cans. Wot's more, if you'd done wot I told you, you wouldn't need no assistant. Plain as I 'ear you now I 'eard that shot, Saturday!”