As he entered the police station, a constable came forward.
“There's a gentleman here, Inspector Flamborough. He's called about the Silverdale case and he wants to see you. He's a foreigner of the name of Renard.”
“Very well. Send him along to me,” Flamborough ordered.
In a few moments, the constable ushered in a small man with a black moustache and a shock of stiffly-brushed hair which gave him a foreign appearance. The Inspector was relieved to find that he spoke perfect English, though with a slight accent.
“My name is Octave Renard,” he introduced himself. “I am the brother of Mrs. Yvonne Silverdale.”
Flamborough, with a certain admiration for the fortitude of the little man in the tragic circumstances, made haste to put him at his ease by expressing his sympathy.
“Yes, very sad,” said the little Frenchman, with an obvious effort to keep himself under control. “I was very fond of my sister, you understand. She was so gay, so fond of life. She enjoyed herself every moment of the day. And now——”
A gesture filled out the missing phrase.
Flamborough's face betrayed his commiseration; but he was a busy man, and could ill afford to waste time.
“You wished to see me about something?”