“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Stenness hastened to explain. “The Chief Constable.”
Arthur Hawkhurst leaned his air-gun against the wall and came forward.
“D’you usually travel with an escort, sir?” he inquired with a boyish grin. “A bobby and a plain clothes man in the hall outside, I see.”
Then, turning to Stenness, he went on:
“Uncle Roger anywhere about? I owe the old man an apology. He’s rather peevish with me over the piano, you know; and I must smooth him down. Not let the sun go down on his wrath, et cetera.”
Stenness threw an interrogative glance at Sir Clinton. Getting the answer he expected, he broke the news to Arthur.
“What! Both of ’em killed! Nonsense!”
Then the sight of the Chief Constable and the recollection of the uniformed man outside seemed to convince him.
“Of course! That accounts for the bobby. And they’re both gone, you say? Poor old birds! Poor old birds!”
It was hardly the requiem which might have been expected; but it seemed sincere enough in tone if not in words. He added thoughtfully: