Inspector Harbottle looked rather grimly at him, his eyes narrowed; but Hemingway said blandly: “Just so. Mind you, it hasn't come to light, but, there! it's early days yet.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Drybeck triumphantly. “You are forgetting one significant circumstance, Chief Inspector! If we are to believe that Warrenby was shot at twenty past seven—and I see no reason for disbelieving this—what was Miss Warrenby doing between that time and the time when she reached Miss Patterdale's house?”
“When was that?” asked Hemingway.
“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Drybeck, “it seems to be impossible to discover exactly when that was, but my enquiries lead me to say that it cannot have been less than a quarter of an hour later. I am much inclined to think that Miss Warrenby made a fatal slip when she correctly stated the time when she—as she puts it—heard the shot. Before she went to Miss Patterdale, the rifle had to be disposed of.”
“The young lady came over faint, and small wonder!” interjected Harbottle.
“Nonsense, Horace! she was burying the rifle in the asparagus bed! Well, sir, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Wonderful the way you've worked it all out! I shall know where to come if I should find myself at a loss. But I won't keep you from your dinner any longer now.”
He then swept the fulminating Harbottle out of the rose garden, bade Mr. Drybeck a kind but firm farewell, and joined Sergeant Carsethorn in the waiting car.
“Where to now, sir?” asked the Sergeant.
“What's the beer like at the local?” demanded Hemingway.
The Sergeant grinned. “Good. It's a free house.”