“In the old horse-bus days, inspector, it was rumoured that when a bus-driver got a holiday he spent it on somebody else's bus, picking up tips from the driver. It seems that you want me to spend my holiday watching you do police work and picking up tips from your methods.”
Inspector Armadale evidently suspected something behind the politeness with which Sir Clinton had turned his phrase. He looked rather glumly at his superior as he replied:
“I see I'm going to get the usual mixture, sir—help and sarcasm, half and half. Well, my hide's been tanned already; and your help's worth it.”
Sir Clinton corrected him with an air of exactitude.
“What I said was that I'd ‘look into the affair.’ It's your case, inspector. I'm not taking it off your shoulders, you understand. I don't mind prowling round with you; but the thing's in your hands officially, and I've nothing to do with it except as a spectator, remember.”
Armadale's air became even gloomier when he heard this point of view so explicitly laid down.
“You mean it's to be just the same as the Ravensthorpe affair, I suppose,” he suggested. “Each of us has all the facts we collect, but you don't tell me what you think of them as we get them. Is that it, sir?”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“That's it, inspector. Now, if you and Mr. Wendover will go round to the front of this place, I'll get my car out and pick you up in a minute or two.”