Inspector Harding, betraying no sign of discomfiture, got up. "Good morning," he said impersonally. "I want a word with you, Captain Billington-Smith. Will you come into the morning-room, please?"
"Oh, was I the person you came to see?" said Francis. "It all goes to show one ought never to judge by appearances, doesn't it?"
Harding vouchsafed no answer to this, but merely held open the door into the morning-room. Francis strolled in, stripping off his wash-leather driving gloves.
Harding shut the door, and walked slowly forward.
Francis tossed his gloves on to the table between them, and drew out his cigarette-case. "From your expression,
Inspector, I'm led to suppose you have something of great importance to disclose."
"You are perfectly right," said Harding. "What I have to say to you is extremely serious, Captain Billington-Smith. Your car was seen, parked on the track leading to Dean Farm, at eleven-thirty on Monday morning."
For a moment Francis's hand remained poised above his open cigarette-case, while his eyes, suddenly narrowed, looked straight across into Harding's. Then, he drew out a cigarette, and shut his case with a snap. "Damn!" he said, and returned the case to his pocket. He set the cigarette between his lips, lit it, and blew a cloud of smoke. "Well?" he said. "What now?"
"Now," said Harding quietly, "I should like you to tell me the true story of what you did on Monday morning. Where were you at eleven-thirty?"
"Robbing the safe in the next room," replied Francis with something of a snap. "Who was the meddlesome busybody who nosed out my car?"