Hemingway, threading his way through the crowd, came upon Abby Dearham, who was carrying a basket already overflowing and who seemed to be in attendance on her aunt. She greeted him with her unaffected friendliness. “Hallo! Whatever are you doing here? Are you marketing?”
“No, but I can see I ought to be,” he replied.
“Well, you really do pick up the most marvellous bargains sometimes. Everyone always comes in on market-day: it's one of the done things. If you happen to like goats'-milk cheese, the Women's Institute, over there, beside the fruit-and-vegetables, have got some, which my aunt brought in and—”
Hemingway waited expectantly, but it was rapidly borne in upon him that Miss Dearham had suddenly lost interest in him. She appeared to have caught sight of a heavenly vision, and was staring beyond the Chief Inspector, an expression of fond idiocy upon her countenance. Turning his head, he perceived young Mr. Haswell was bearing down upon them, looking quite as foolish as Miss Dearham, and even more oblivious of his surroundings. “I thought you'd be here!” he said.
“Charles, you are dreadful!” said Miss Dearham, in a besotted voice. “You ought to be working!”
The Chief Inspector, realising that he was intruding into an idyll, and that two at least of Thornden's detectives had abandoned the search for truth, withdrew without excuse or leave-taking, and proceeded on his way to the station.
The train was just pulling out of it when he reached it, and he met Inspector Harbottle in the station-yard. The Inspector came striding briskly towards him. “You win, Chief!” he said.
“Well, I hope I shall, but I'm not liking it much at the moment,” replied Hemingway, disappointingly unenthusiastic. “Was it the date?”
“It was. The Superintendent had Acton stay on. He says you're a wonder, sir.”
“He's mistaken. However, I'm glad there's something I've managed to spot.”