Harding leaned across to open the car door for her. "If that's your reason for going to the station, why bother:' he said. "Won't you let me drive you back to the Grange'."
"Would you mind?" asked Dinah doubtfully.
"No," replied Inspector Harding. "I shouldn't mind at all."
"Well, it's frightfully decent of you, but I ought to warn you that I've got one or two parcels to pick up. I don't want to waste your time."
"Where are these parcels?" inquired Harding, letting the clutch out.
"Waiting for me at Dove's, the big linen-draper's in the High Street. Fay feels she must wear mourning, and as she's only got one black day frock, I've had to get her some on approval. I call it rather rotten, myself, but she's hot on the conventions."
"All right, we'll go and collect them, and they can share the dickey with Sergeant Nethersole. We've got to collect him too. Will you direct me to this shop you want?"
"Straight down the High Street. I'll tell you when to stop." Miss Fawcett settled herself at her ease beside the Inspector, and added chattily: "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Not at all. What is it?"
"Well, do you really wear a god-forsaken badge under the lapel of your coat, and show it to anybody who wants to know who you are?"