“Now I think we’d better go and have a look at the loophole again,” he suggested. “Though I hardly think it’s likely to have changed much since I saw it last. But I have a sort of feeling that Sherlock would have found something there, and perhaps you might be able to spot it, even if I can’t. That’s the worst of this detective business: one needs an eye for detail and I never had it.”
With an air of deep solemnity he led the way to the outer side of the hedge, approached the loophole, and peered into it for a time.
“No,” he admitted finally with a crestfallen air, “it seems just the same as it was when I saw it last.”
He put his hand into the hole.
“Not even a bird’s nest or any little thing of that kind,” he announced disconsolately. “Ah, we need Sherlock; we need Sherlock. He’d have found some cigar-ash or something of that sort, no doubt. I can’t see it. Have a look yourself, Squire.”
Rather irritated by the chaff, Wendover stooped and stared into the loophole. He had to confess, however, that he saw nothing in the slightest degree suggestive.
“No broken twigs where the murderer rested his air-gun?” Sir Clinton inquired. “Have a good look; the price is the same for two peeps as for one. Special terms by the hour, if you care to . . . Ugh! Damn these spiders! That gossamer’s all over the place—filthy, filmy stuff!”
He rubbed his hand on the hedge while Wendover grinned at his annoyance.
“Serves you right, Clinton! It’ll take your mind off all this persiflage business.”
Sir Clinton seemed engrossed in removing the remaining filaments from his hand.