Sir Clinton rose to his feet with a gesture which invited the doctor to remain in his chair.
“Of course, doctor,” he pointed out, “a good deal of your story is like What the Soldier Said—it isn't first-hand evidence. We'll have to get it for ourselves, again, from the people who gave it to you: Dr. Markfield and this maid next door. That's only routine; and doesn't imply that we disbelieve it in the slightest, naturally.”
Dr. Ringwood agreed with a faint smile.
“I prefer getting a patient's symptoms at first-hand myself,” he said. “Things do get distorted a bit in the re-telling. And some of what I gave you is quite possibly just gossip. I thought you ought to hear it; but most certainly I don't guarantee its accuracy.”
The Inspector beamed his approval of the doctor's views.
“And now, sir,” he said, glancing at Sir Clinton, “I think I'd better go over the ground here and see if there's anything worth picking up.”
He suited the action to the word, and began a systematic search of the room, commenting aloud from time to time for his companions’ benefit.
“There's no pistol here, unless it's hidden away somewhere,” he reported after a while. “The murderer must have taken it away with him.”
Sir Clinton's face took on a quizzical expression.
“Just one suggestion, Inspector. Let's keep the facts and the inferences in separate boxes, if you please. What we really do know is that you haven't found any pistol up to the present.”