“I admire the restraint of your language,” said Wendover with a smile. “But, you know, Clinton, I think you’re a bit hard on the beggar. What could he do but run? I’d have run myself, and I make no bones about it either.”
“Oh, so would I,” Sir Clinton conceded carelessly. “It wasn’t the running that put my back up.”
“You mean that there’s running and running, so to speak?”
“Exactly. Look at the case of that girl who was in the Maze when the murders were done—Miss Forrest, I mean. She had just as much right as Ernest to get hysterical. I won’t say she was as cool as a cucumber when we saw her; one couldn’t expect that. But she kept her nerves in order. She didn’t arrive at the house afterwards in a state of whimpering panic.”
“No, that’s true,” Wendover confirmed. “She’s worth a dozen of Ernest Shandon at a pinch, that girl. She kept her head and did exactly what was wanted.”
“Quite so. She wasn’t thinking of her own skin all the time like friend Ernest.”
“What’s all this about Stenness?” Wendover demanded. “Is it merely some rot that Ernest’s squirted out in the middle of his funk, or is there anything in it?”
“Here’s the Maze,” Sir Clinton interrupted, cutting him short. “Suppose we postpone discussion till after dinner to-night, Squire. I don’t want to be distracted for the next few minutes if you don’t mind.”
They entered the Maze and made their way towards Helen’s Bower. Near the door into it Wendover stopped suddenly and pointed to the pathway at their feet.
“Hullo! Look, Clinton! There’s a bit of black thread lying on the ground.”