There was a knock at the door and a constable entered.
“A young lady wants to see you, sir,” he announced as he crossed the room and handed a card to the Chief Constable. “She insisted that she must see you personally. There's a woman with her.”
“Send her up,” Sir Clinton ordered, after a glance at the card.
When the constable had left the room, Sir Clinton flicked the tiny oblong of pasteboard across his desk to the Inspector who picked it up.
“Miss Avice Deepcar,” he read. “What the deuce can she be wanting here?”
“Calm yourself, Inspector. The next instalment will be published in a moment or two. You'd better wait here while she interviews me.”
When Avice Deepcar entered the office, Flamborough was puzzled by her manner. She seemed to be agitated, but it was not the sort of agitation he had expected. When she spoke, it sounded as if she were both indignant and perturbed.
“You're Sir Clinton Driffield, aren't you?” she demanded, scanning the Chief Constable closely.
The Chief Constable confessed to his identity.
“Then I'll come straight to the point,” Avice said. “What is the meaning of your visiting my house last night, terrorising my maid, and making a search through my private papers? I'm going to see my solicitor about it—I don't believe it's legal. But in the meantime, I want to know why you did it.”