The Inspector said briefly that there was no need for him to worry about that, and left the house, a thoughtful man. When he told his Sergeant the result of his visit, Wake knit his brows, and said after profound consideration: "Well, I suppose one might get something out of it, sir, though it doesn't seem very likely to me. If young White got wind of that scheme of his father's, others might have done likewise."
"So they might," said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. "And then have shot Garter just to upset the scheme. I've come across people like that, of course. In books."
Sergeant Wake flushed, and said in a mortified voice that he was only trying to use his imagination, as his chief had frequently advised him to do.
"Forget it!" said Hemingway.
Silence fell. Hemingway, sitting at his desk, drew an intricate mosaic of cubes and squares on the blottingpaper, apparently absorbed in this childish occupation. Sergeant Wake watched him hopefully. Suddenly the Inspector threw down his pencil. "What's the most common motive for murder, Wake?" he demanded.
"Passion," replied the Sergeant promptly.
"Not by a long chalk it isn't. Money, my lad; that's why five out of seven murders are committed."
"Yes, but Carter hadn't got any money," objected Wake.
"He'd got something just as important, if only I'd had the sense to see it sooner," said Hemingway. "He'd got an aunt."
The Sergeant frowned disapproval. "That brings us back to the young lady: Miss Cliffe. I must say, I don't like it, sir."