Harding sat back in his chair. "What on earth are you talking about?" he asked patiently.
"You know!" said Dinah. "Why do you walk in the fields in gloves, missing so much and so much?" Mrs. Chudleigh wears that kind of glove. Mrs. Twining's are just part of the general ensemble, not glovey at all. And they were ruined, too, because she'd touched Arthur's body, and one of her hands was all stained with blood. It was beastly."
"Which one?" Harding asked.
Dinah screwed up her eyes, as though trying to focus something. "The right one," she replied, and suddenly stiffened. "John!"
"Well?"
"You must be mad!" gasped Dinah. "It isn't possible!"
"Someone did it, Dinah."
"Yes, but — but it's too fantastic! I see what you're driving at, but -"
He got up. "I can't discuss it with you, darling. Will you sit tight and say nothing to anyone? I may be on a wrong track altogether." He looked at his wrist-watch. "I must go now," he said. "I shall see you tomorrow, I hope — lateish."
When he stepped out into the porch presently he found the Sergeant seated in the car, reading a folded newspaper with the air of one who expects to be obliged to kick his heels indefinitely. He said briefly: "Sorry to have been so long, Sergeant. Did you find out anything from the gardener?"