Charles stared at her. “Dad? But he wasn't there!”
“Of course he wasn't. But what would you feel like if we started to make up stories of where he might have been? You shouldn't let your tongue run away with you.”
She appealed to deaf ears. Young Mr. Haswell, betraying an unfilial delight in this novel aspect of his parent, gave a shout of laughter, and gasped: “Dad! Oh, what a rich thought! I must ask him if he can account for his movements!”
Chapter Five
By noon on the following day, the Chief Constable was listening to a report from Detective-Sergeant Carsethorn, who had spent a busy but unpromising morning; half an hour later he expressed a desire to be allowed to think the thing over; and within ten minutes he had reached a not unexpected but not very welcome decision. “And I don't mind telling you, Carsethorn,” he said, as he sat waiting to be connected with a certain London telephone number, “that I should do exactly the same if Inspector Thropton hadn't chosen this moment to go down with German measles!”
“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant, torn between a natural desire to achieve promotion through his brilliant handling of a difficult case, and an uneasy suspicion that the problem was rather too complicated for him to tackle.
It was therefore with mixed feelings that, shortly before four o'clock, he made the acquaintance of a bright-eyed and cheerful individual, who was ushered into the Chief Constable's room at the police-station, a tall and rather severe man at his heels.
“Chief Inspector Hemingway?” said Colonel Scales, rising behind his desk, and holding out his hand across it. “Glad to meet you! Heard of you, of course. I warned Headquarters this would need a good man, and I see they've sent me one.”
“Thank you, sir!” said the Chief Inspector, without a blush. He shook the Colonel's hand, and indicated his companion. “Inspector Harbottle, sir.”
“Afternoon, Inspector. This is Detective-Sergeant Carsethorn, who has been in charge of the case.”