“Just Jack. Or at times: ‘Here! You!’ He answered to either.”
Inspector Armadale's temper began to show signs of fraying.
“You must know something more about him. Hadn't he a character when you employed him?”
“Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my whiskey.”
“Don't be funny,” snapped Armadale. “Didn't you get any references from an earlier employer?”
Billingford's eyes twinkled.
“Me? No. I've a charitable nature. Where would any of us be if we had our characters pawed over? Forgive and forget's my motto. It's easy enough to work on till someone does you in the eye.”
“So you say you know nothing about him?”
“I don't quite like the way you put it, inspector. It seems almost rude. But I don't know where he is now, and I'll kiss the Book on that for you if you want it.”
Armadale's expression showed clearly that he thought little would be gained by accepting Billingford's offer. He warned Derek Fordingbridge that his evidence might be needed at the inquest; then, with a cold nod to Billingford, he led the way out of the cottage. Sir Clinton maintained silence until they were beyond earshot of the door, then, as though addressing the world at large, he said pensively: