“That missing diary would be a useful weapon,” Sir Clinton continued. “You could check statements by it; or you could produce false statements from it, if you were a swindling claimant.”
“That's self-evident,” Wendover interjected.
“So it is,” Sir Clinton admitted blandly. “I suppose that's why you didn't mention it yourself, squire. To continue. There's one point which strikes me as interesting. Supposing that Miss Fordingbridge hadn't come up here to-day, do you think we'd have discovered that the diary was missing at all?”
“No, unless Mr. Fordingbridge had noticed the loss.”
“Naturally. Now I'll give you a plain hint. What is there behind Mr. Fordingbridge's evident annoyance? That seems to me a fruitful line for speculation, if you're thinking of thinking, as it were.”
Wendover reflected for a moment.
“You mean that the diary would be invaluable to a claimant, and hence Fordingbridge may have been angry at its loss. Or else you mean that Fordingbridge was mad because the loss had been discovered. Is that what you're after, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton's gesture in reply seemed to deprecate any haste.
“I'm not after anything in particular, squire,” he assured Wendover. “I simply don't see my way through the business yet. I merely recommend the subject for you to browse over. As they say about Shakespeare, new perspectives open up before one's eyes every time one examines the subject afresh. And, by the way, hypophosphites are said to be sustaining during a long spell of intense cogitation. I think we'll call at the druggist's on the way home and buy up his stock. There's more in this affair than meets the eye.”
The inspector picked up the sack. Then, apparently struck by an after-thought, he laid it on the floor again and took out his note-book.