"Yes, that's what Mrs. Herriard as good as told me," said Hemingway. "I'm sorry I can't see my way to obliging her, but there it is! my time's not my own, as you might say. Why doesn't she ask them at the library who wrote the book? They'll be bound to know."
"Inspector," said Stephen, "you are a great man! During the whole course of our exhausting discussions, not one of us thought of that simple expedient. I don't want to hear any more tit-bits about the Empress, but I shall pass on your advice to my aunt, partly because I feel mellow, and partly because my Uncle Joseph wants to hear about the Empress even less than I do, judging by his strenuous opposition to Aunt's getting another copy of the book."
Hemingway's shrewd gaze was fixed on his face. "You don't pass up many chances of annoying your uncle, do you, sir?"
"None, I hope," said Stephen coolly. "What makes you do it, sir, if I may ask?"
"Mutual antipathy."
"Mutual?" repeated Hemingway, lifting an eyebrow.
"Did I say mutual? A slip of the tongue."
Hemingway nodded, as though fully satisfied with this explanation. Stephen turned to go back into the drawing-room, but before he reached the door it opened, and Maud came out.
Her small mouth was folded closely, and she looked at Stephen with a stony expression in her eyes. He said: "I was coming to find you, Aunt. Inspector Hemingway advises you to enquire at your library for the name of the author of that book."
Maud's countenance relaxed a little, and the glance she cast at Hemingway was almost one of approval. "I must say that is a very sensible idea," she said. "But I still consider that the person who destroyed the book ought to own up. It was a very shabby trick. I should not have thought it of anyone at Lexham, even of you, Stephen."