A few minutes later, he was informed by the Sergeant on duty that Colonel Scales had come in a little while earlier, to do some business with the Superintendent, and had left a message in the charge-room that he would like to see the Chief Inspector before he left the police-station. “He says, would you go right in, sir?”
Colonel Scales was just nodding dismissal to a very stout Superintendent when Hemingway went to his room, and he said: “Come in, and sit down, Hemingway! Glad to hear you want to see me: I hope it means you've got something?”
“Yes, I have, sir,” responded Hemingway. “Several things. I've sent one of them round to your Dr. Rotherhope by one of my chaps, and I hope he'll be able to let me have a report on it tonight. He told me he'd got a small laboratory, so I don't think I shall have to send it all the way to Nottingham to be analysed.”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you that, sir: I only know what I hope it may be. It's quite a long story.”
“Then have a cigarette, or light your pipe, and tell it to me!” invited the Colonel. “Nothing more you wanted to say to me, is there, Mitcham?”
“No, sir,” replied the stout Superintendent regretfully, and withdrew.
“Now!” said the Colonel.
“Well, sir, putting it baldly, Sampson Warrenby wasn't shot at 7.15; and in all probability he wasn't shot with a rifle.”
“Good God! How do you arrive at that?”