Wendover, feeling that he had hardly shone by his interposition, refrained from further questions and glanced at Sir Clinton. The chief constable appeared to think that further inquiries could be allowed to stand over for a time.
“I think we'd better be moving on,” he suggested. “Thanks for your help, Dr. Rafford. Once we've seen the body, perhaps something fresh may turn up, and we may have to trouble you again. By the way,” he added, “did you notice if there was a heavy dew last night? I was playing bridge at the hotel and didn't go out after dinner; but perhaps you were out and can tell me.”
“The dew did come down fairly heavy,” Rafford said, after a pause for recollection. “I happened to be out at a case, and I noticed it. Are you thinking about the possibility of Hay's death being due to exposure?”
“Not exactly,” Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly ironical smile. “As you would say, doctor, exposure doesn't mark a man's wrist—at least not so quick as all that.”
Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and accompanied them to the garden gate as they went out.
“I hope I haven't started you on a wild-goose chase, inspector,” he said on parting. “But I suppose that sort of thing's all in your day's work, anyhow.”
Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun along towards Foxhills; then at last he uttered his views in a single sentence:
“That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly jaunty.”
And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately silent until they had reached their destination.
“This is the place, I think,” Sir Clinton said a few minutes later, pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue at a point where a side-road led off towards a little cottage among some trees. “I can see the constable in the garden.”