"What about the soda, Wilkes?" Peter interrupted.
The landlord started. "I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir." He produced a siphon, and squirted the soda-water into the glasses. "It's given me such a turn I don't hardly know what I'm doing." He sat down, limply. "To think of him - dead! And like that too. It must have upset you, finding him," he shuddered.
"Yes, not a pretty sight," Charles said.
They remained seated in the bar, until the noise of a car approaching roused Wilkes from his awe-struck meditations. The car drew up outside, and he hurriedly concealed the tell-tale glasses. "I'll go and let 'em in, sir," he said, and went out to the main door.
Charles and Peter followed him. Inspector Tomlinson was standing in the entrance, and at sight of Charles he said briskly: "Very good of you to wait, sir. Hope we haven't kept you. If you'll come out I've got a car here, and you can tell me what has happened while we go along to this place. Where is it, sir?"
"Only a stone's throw. I'll direct you."
"Who's the dead man, sir? Do you know him?"
"Duval. The artist I spoke to you about."
"I remember, sir," the inspector said. As usual he displayed nothing but a business-like and detached interest in the occurrence. "Will you get in beside Sergeant Matthews in the front, sir, and tell him the way? This is Dr Puttock, the Divisional Surgeon. Can you find room behind, Mr. Fortescue? I'm afraid it's a tight fit."
Peter managed to wedge himself between Dr Puttock and the inspector, and the car started forward. In a few minutes it turned into the rough lane, and drew up outside the cottage.