“Yes,” agreed Sir Richard, pensively swinging his eyeglass on the end of its ribbon. “And I think you might, with advantage, look to the sudden disappearance from this inn of a flashy person calling himself Captain Trimble, Mr Philips.”
“Really, sir! This becomes more and more—Pray, what reason have you for supposing that this man may be implicated in the murder?”
“Well,” said Sir Richard slowly, “some chance words which I let fall on the subject of—ah—waistcoats, sent Captain Trimble off hot-foot to Bristol.”
The magistrate blinked, and directed an accusing glance towards his half-empty glass. A horrid suspicion that the rum punch had affected his understanding was dispelled, however, by Sir Richard’s next words.
“My acquaintance at the inn near Wroxhall wore a catskin waistcoat. A casual reference to this circumstance had the surprising effect of arousing the Captain’s curiosity. He asked me in what direction the man in the catskin waistcoat had been travelling, and upon my saying that I believed him to be bound for Bristol, he left the inn—er—incontinent.”
“I see! yes, yes, I see! An accomplice!”
“My own feeling,” said Sir Richard, “is that he was an accomplice who had been—er—bubbled.”
The magistrate appeared to be much struck by this. “Yes! I see it all! Good God, this is a terrible affair! I have never been called upon to—But you say this Captain Trimble went off to Bristol, sir?”
“He did. But I have since learned, Mr Philips, that he was back at this inn at six o’clock this evening. Ah! I should, I see, say yesterday evening,” he added with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Mr Philips drew a long breath. “Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up—are in fact, of such a nature as to—Upon my word, I never thought—But the murder! You discovered this, sir?”