“It's really dreadful, Sir Clinton,” she broke out. “I can hardly believe that it's true. And who could want to kill poor Peter Hay, who hadn't an enemy in the world, is beyond me altogether. I simply can't imagine it. And what made them do it? I can't guess. I must try at my next séance to see if I can get any light on it. Perhaps you've found out all about it already.”
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“We've found out next to nothing, I'm sorry to say.”
Miss Fordingbridge regarded him with marked disapproval.
“And aren't you going to arrest the man who killed him?”
“In the end, I hope,” Sir Clinton answered patiently. Then he turned to Paul Fordingbridge. “These are the keys of Foxhills that Peter Hay kept. I haven't a search-warrant; but we must get into the house, if you'll let us go over it. Would you mind showing us round the place? You see, you know all about it, and your help would be of value to us in case there's anything wrong up there.”
At the word “search-warrant,” Paul Fordingbridge seemed to prick up his ears; and there was a perceptible pause before he answered the chief constable's inquiry.
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he replied smoothly. “I shall be only too glad to give you any assistance that I can. But what makes you think there's anything wrong at Foxhills? The constable told us that Peter Hay was found at his own cottage.”
At a gesture from Sir Clinton, the inspector went over to the chief constable's car and, first drawing on his rubber gloves, he brought back one of the silver ornaments taken from Peter Hay's drawer.
“You recognise that?” Sir Clinton asked.