Sir Clinton answered with an affirmative nod. His thoughts seemed elsewhere, and he had the air of being recalled to the present by Paul Fordingbridge's voice.
“Then, in that case, we can go, Jay. I'm sure Sir Clinton would prefer things left untouched at present, so you mustn't come about here again, shifting anything, until he gives permission. Care to keep the keys?” he added, turning to the chief constable.
“Inspector Armadale had better have them,” Sir Clinton answered.
Paul Fordingbridge handed over the bunch of keys, made a faint gesture of farewell, and followed his sister to the car. Sir Clinton moved across to the window and watched them start down the avenue before he opened his mouth. When they had disappeared round a bend in the road, he turned to his two companions again. Wendover could see that he looked more serious even than at Peter Hay's cottage.
“I may as well say at once, inspector, that I do not propose to extend my bus-driver's holiday to the extent of making a trip to Australia.”
Armadale evidently failed to follow this line of thought.
“Australia, sir? I never said anything about Australia.”
Sir Clinton seemed to recover his good spirits.
“True, now I come to think of it. Shows how little there is in all this talk about telepathy. I'd made certain I'd read your thoughts correctly; and now it turns out that you weren't thinking at all. A mental blank, what? Tut! Tut! It's a warning against rushing to conclusions, inspector.”
“I don't see myself rushing to Australia, anyhow, sir.”