“Ah! Indeed! Can you produce this maid? She's not out of town at present or anything like that?”
“I can produce her in a few moments,” Avice retorted with obvious assurance. “She's waiting for me somewhere in this building at the present time.”
Sir Clinton glanced at Flamborough and the Inspector retired from the room. In a very short time he returned, bringing with him a middle-aged woman, who glanced inquisitively at Sir Clinton as she entered.
“Now, Marple,” Avice Deepcar demanded, “do you recognise anyone here?”
Mrs. Marple had no hesitation in the matter.
“That's Sir Clinton Driffield, Miss. I know his face quite well.”
Flamborough's suspicion that his superior had been moving in the background of the case were completely confirmed by this evidence; but he was still further surprised to catch a gleam of sardonic amusement passing across the face of the Chief Constable.
“You recognise me, it seems?” he said, as though half in doubt as to what line to take. “You won't mind my testing your memory a little? Well, then, what kind of suit was I wearing when I came to your house?”
Mrs. Marple considered carefully for a moment or two before replying:
“An ordinary suit, sir; a dark one rather like the one you've got on just now.”