“Yes. And there's their card-index, with everything entered up in chronological order—every bit of information they could collect about the Foxhills crowd from any source whatever. That made sure that if they had to meet any questions from a particular person about his dealings with the real Derek Fordingbridge, they could turn up their index and know exactly what to say. It was far safer than trusting to any single man's memory on the spur of the moment. I expect they've been copying out entries from the stolen diary and putting them into the filing-cabinet. We haven't time to waste. Come along. The police, next. Sapcote must collect them for us and bring them along, inspector.”
As Wendover drove, it was hardly more than a matter of seconds before Sapcote had been instructed to collect all the available constables and bring them to the hotel.
“That's our next port of call, squire. Drive like the devil,” Sir Clinton ordered, as he ended his instructions to the constable.
But they had hardly cleared the village before he gave a counter-order.
“Stop at the cottage again, squire.”
Wendover pulled up the car obediently, and all three jumped out.
“Get the oars of that boat,” Sir Clinton instructed them. “And hurry!”
The oars were soon found and carried down to the car, which Wendover started immediately. A few hundred yards along the road, Sir Clinton pitched the oars overboard, taking care that they did not drop on the highway.
Wendover, intent on his driving, heard the inspector speak to his superior.
“We found that cartridge-case you wanted, sir, when we put that sand through the sieves. It's a .38, same as Mrs. Fleetwood's pistol. I have it safe.”