"Do you mind?" he asked abruptly.
"I don't know. It isn't what I'd have chosen for him, though in some ways I quite see - well, never mind! But all this horrid scandal! I can't think what my husband will say!"
"I shouldn't worry about the scandal. Neither of the girls has anything to do with that."
"Well, I wish it could be cleared up. Do you know if the police are any nearer to reaching a solution?"
"No, I'm afraid I know nothing. Hugh seems to be the one the Inspector from London has taken to his heart. Doesn't he know anything?"
"If he does, he hasn't told me. I shouldn't think the Scotland Yard man would take him into his confidence. I haven't met him: is he any good?"
"It's hard to say. He doesn't give away much. We shall have to wait for results."
This was what Inspector Hemingway was doing, somewhat to the surprise of the local Superintendent, who told Sergeant Wake that he couldn't for the life of him make out what kind of game his chief was playing.
"If you were to ask me," he said severely, "I should say you'd enough material to work on right under your nose here, without going off on any wild-goose chases. However, doubtless I'm wrong."
Sergeant Wake did not consider it incumbent upon him to deliver any opinion on this point. After a great deal of painstaking research, he had succeeded in bringing to light one witness, in the shape of a twelveyear-old boy, who had seen a white sports-car, with black wings, upon the road to Kershaw on Sunday afternoon. The boy's notions of time were too vague to be trusted, nor had he observed the white car's driver; but he seemed to be quite sure that the car was travelling towards Kershaw, a circumstance which certainly tallied with Prince Varasashvili's story.