He reflected for a moment, then added:
“Somebody'll have to look after the poor beasts, now he's gone. Would there be any objection to my taking them away, sir? They'll have to be fed.”
Sir Clinton, to whom the question was obviously addressed, gave permission at once.
“We mustn't let the beasts starve. You'll have to take the cages too, of course?”
“Yes, sir. I can put them in my backyard at home.”
The constable paused for a moment, then, a little shamefacedly, he added:
“Peter was a good friend to me; and I wouldn't like to see his pets fall into anybody's hands that might be cruel to them or neglect them. He was real fond of them.”
Wendover's eye fell upon a small white paper bag on one of the dresser shelves. He stepped across, opened the parcel, sniffed for a moment, and then handed the thing to Sir Clinton.
“Here's where the perfume comes from, Clinton—a bag of pear-drops, just as the constable said. He must have been eating some just before he died.”
The chief constable looked at the crumbled paper.