"How did he account to her for the hundred pounds he lent you a couple of months ago?" asked the Inspector.
"I don't suppose he did. She made him an allowance. No reason for her ever to have found out about it if he hadn't been shot. I only wanted a loan to tide me over to the quarter. Don't get any wrong idea into your head about that! I could sit down and write a cheque for the amount right now. I don't say it's convenient, but my bank will meet it all right." He glanced up rather shamefacedly, and added: "If you want the truth, it's damned inconvenient that Carter's dead! Of course, we weren't going to make a fortune out of that little deal, but anything's welcome in these hard times."
The Inspector nodded. "Anyone but Jones and Carter know of this scheme of yours?"
"Well, of course not!" said White impatiently. "A nice stink there'd have been if they had! I can't see what you want to know about it for. It can't have any bearing on the case." A thought struck him; he said sharply: "Who put you on to it, anyway?"
"I needn't worry you with that," replied Hemingway. He thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew out certain objects, which he laid on the desk before White. "Now, if you could identify any of these, you might help me a lot," he said. "One lady's hair-slide; one broken nail-file; one small magnet; and one gent's pocket-knife in good condition. Seen any of them before?"
White took a moment to answer. "What's this? Starting an ironmongery business? Where did you find them?"
"In your shrubbery."
"I've never seen any of them before in my life." "Funny. I thought for a moment you had," said the Inspector blandly.
"Well, I haven't." White flicked the hair-slide with a contemptuous finger. "Probably the maid's. I don't wear them myself. I don't amuse myself picking up needles with magnets either; and I've never used a nail-file in my life."
"What about the knife?" inquired the Inspector.