“I'll let you see it later on,” he explained rather confusedly. “I'll have to hunt it out. I find I've left it in the pocket of another jacket.”
Sir Clinton successfully repressed any signs of a curiosity which he might have felt.
“Oh, any time you like,” he suggested, without betraying much interest in the matter.
By an almost imperceptible manœuvre he broke the group up into two pairs, and moved on towards the hotel entrance with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, leaving Wendover and the Australian to follow if they chose. It was almost dinner-time as they entered the building; and Wendover took the opportunity of shaking off Cargill, who seemed inclined to cling to him more than he wished.
Rather to Wendover's surprise, Sir Clinton showed no inclination, after dinner, to plunge into further investigations.
“We mustn't be greedy, squire,” he argued. “We must leave the inspector a fair share of the case, you know. If amateurs like ourselves bustle around too much, the professional would have no practice in his art at all.”
“If you ask me,” Wendover retorted, “the professional's spending all his time barking furiously at the foot of the wrong tree.”
“You think so? Well, if the cats up the tree insist on making a noise like a murderer, you can't blame him, can you?”
“I don't like his damned flat-footed way of going about his job,” Wendover protested angrily. “One always supposed that people were treated as innocent until they were convicted; but your inspector interviewed that girl as if he were measuring her for a rope.”
“He's built up a wonderfully convincing case, squire; don't forget that.”