"Is it? I'm sorry to hear it. Don't hustle me, Sergeant."
The sergeant eyed him speculatively and perceived suddenly that Mr. Amberley's attention had wandered. He was looking past the sergeant to the gate of Ivy Cottage, which was just visible up the lane. The sergeant was about to turn round to see what was interesting him so much when he was stopped.
"Don't turn round, Sergeant," Amberley said quietly.
The sergeant was immediately possessed by an almost uncontrollable desire just to glance over his shoulder, but he managed to check it. "What have you seen, sir?"
Amberley was no longer looking up the lane. A minute ago the wicket-gate had opened, a man had slipped out, and cast rather a furtive look to left and right. When he saw the car at the bottom of the lane, with its owner apparently deep in conversation with Sergeant Gubbins, he had turned abruptly and walked away, up the lane.
"Very interesting," said Mr. Amberley slowly. "And what, Sergeant, do we make of that?"
The sergeant swelled with indignation. "A fat lot of chance I have of making anything of it, haven't I, sir? "Don't turn round," you say, and then ask me what I make of it!"
Mr. Amberley was stroking his chin meditatively. "It looks as though I'm not so far out," he said.
"Does it, sir?" said the sergeant in considerable dudgeon. "Well, isn't that nice? P'raps if I'm patient you'll see fit to tell me what you've seen."
"A man, Sergeant. Just a man."