And two pages have been torn out. What do you make of that?"
"Good Lord!" Peter said blankly. "I say, things do begin to look a bit sinister, don't they? What do you propose we do about it? Call in Scotland Yard?"
"I've been playing with that idea for some days, but I'm not in love with it. I don't quite see myself spinning this yarn to some disillusioned official. If we'd any real data to give the Yard, well and good. But I ask you, what does our tale sound like, in cold blood? A hotch-potch without one solid fact to go on. We hear noises, we discover a skeleton, we listen to what a drunken Frenchman has to say, and see various people wandering about the grounds. The only fact we've got is that someone broke into the cellars, and that's a matter for the local police to deal with. It's not good enough."
Peter nodded. "That's what I feel myself, I must say. At the same time we're not getting anywhere - principally because we don't know where to start. If this inquiry agent of yours throws any discreditable light on Fripp's past, what do you say to running over to Manfield, and having a chat with the District Inspector?"
A gong chimed in the hall below them. Charles got up. "We can do that, of course. Personally, I'm rather pinning my faith to Duval. I rather think he'll let something out sooner or later which may give us a line on it."
They went slowly down to the library, where Celia and Mrs. Bosanquet were awaiting them.
"Margaret not back yet?" Charles said.
Celia prepared to go in to dinner. "No, but I was hardly expecting her. She said if Peggy Mason was free she might have an early dinner with her in town, and get back here about nine-thirty, before it's quite dark."
"I hope," said Mrs. Bosanquet, "that she will not have forgotten to call at my flat for the planchette."