"Yes, and supposing all this did happen like you say, sir," put in the Sergeant. "White's had plenty of time to fish his gadgets out of that pool, and dispose of them for good and all."
"Time, yes, if he'd thought it necessary, which he probably didn't. But there's one thing you're forgetting: it's muddy down by the water, and Mr. White couldn't get anything out of the pool without leaving some nice, deep footprints. What's more, it 'ud be a pretty risky thing for him to go wading about in the pool when at any moment someone might have seen him from the Palings' side. No, if he threw his apparatus into the pool, it's there still, and that's where we'll find it."
Half an hour later, two constables, with their trousers rolled well above their knees, were painfully stubbing their toes on all the foreign bodies sunk into the mud at the bottom of the pool. When the police-party had arrived at the Dower House, only Florence, the maid, had been in, and she had raised no objection to the Inspector's pursuing investigations in the shrubbery. As long as he didn't come getting in her way, she said, with a sniff, she was sure he could do as he pleased, for it was no concern of hers.
The first haul taken from the bed of the pool was disappointing. It consisted of two glass jam jars, and something that looked like the handle of a saucepan. Then the younger of the two constables cut his foot on a broken plate, and swore loudly; and, a moment later, his companion bent, and plunged his arm into the water, and pulled out something that had been half sunk in the mud. "I've got it, sir!" he exclaimed. "It's a vice, sure enough!"
He waded to the bank, and handed his find to Hemingway. Hemingway betrayed not the smallest sign either of surprise or of gratification, but his Sergeant was visibly impressed, and regarded him with a good deal of awe. "My word, sir, you were right all along!" he said. "Well, I wouldn't have credited it!"
"I'm always right," said Hemingway superbly. "Keep going, Jupp! You'll find something more, or I'm a Dutchman."
"It wouldn't be a sardine-tin, would it, sir?" inquired Jupp, with a grin. "Fisher's just cut his toe on one."
"You stop larking about, and get on with it!" ordered the Inspector, somewhat unfairly. "Come on, Cook, we'll see how this fits those grazes on the sapling."
Both Inspectors were recalled presently by the sound of tumult by the pool. They hurried up the sandy bank, and found that the cocker-spaniel, Prince, discovering strangers in a pool which he regarded as his own, had plunged into the water, not, indeed, to evict the interlopers, but to join them in aquatic sports. He bore with him a large stick, a circumstance which induced Hemingway to shout out: "Never mind about playing with that dog! Get on with it!"
"We're not playing with the brute, sir!" called Fisher, stung into a retort. "We're trying to shoo it off!"