“The box of darts! You put it down on the mantlepiece of the museum; and I happened to notice it this morning when I went in.”
Sir Clinton’s face betrayed his annoyance at his blunder. It was so obvious that no one cared to say anything on the subject.
“I’ll get it for you in a moment,” Sylvia said, as she hurried off.
Stenness looked at the Chief Constable, and it seemed as if his estimate of Sir Clinton was undergoing revision. Wendover was completely taken aback by the turn of events.
“Here it is,” Sylvia said, as she came back to them again. “It was just where you left it. You’d better count the darts to make sure I haven’t lost any—though I haven’t opened the box at all. I was too much afraid of them.”
Sir Clinton obeyed and found the total correct. He shut the box carefully and stowed it away in his pocket.
“Thanks, Miss Hawkhurst. It was very careless of me. But there’s no harm done, since you’ve taken care of them for me.”
And after a few words about the affairs of the night, he took his leave.
“Take the road to the East Gate, Squire,” he requested, as Wendover let in the clutch.
“You’re a bright detective,” his friend retorted scornfully. “Here you’ve been racing and chasing to cut off a possible source of curare; and in the middle of the job you leave a whole tin of lethal darts lying about for Tom, Dick or Harry to pick up. The limit, I’d call it!”