Monsieur Nicholas Staveley,
Flatt's Cotage,
Lynden Sands.
“You see, she'd spelt ‘cottage’ with one ‘t,’ ” Cargill pointed out unnecessarily. “That's what made her throw away the envelope, I expect.”
Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully.
“That's extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep this? Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for reference later on?”
He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by Wendover.
“Why didn't you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that envelope has now is that it further confirms Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of importance.”
“I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill's industry. If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to give us any more assistance; and one never knows what may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He thought he was doing splendidly.”
As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge coming along the corridor towards the stairs.
“Here's someone who can perhaps give us more valuable information,” Sir Clinton added in a low tone.
He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.