Before the Chief Constable could say anything further, two figures loomed up through the fog and a startled exclamation in a female voice reached the group around the car. Sir Clinton caught Dr. Ringwood's arm and whispered hurriedly in his ear:
“The maids coming back to the house. Spin them a yarn that young Hassendean's met with an accident and been brought home. Tell them who you are. We don't want to have them in hysterics.”
Dr. Ringwood moved towards the dim figures in the fog.
“I'm Dr. Ringwood,” he explained. “I suppose you're the maids, aren't you? You must go in very quietly. Young Mr. Hassendean's had a bad accident and mustn't be disturbed. He's in the room to the right as you go in at the door, so don't make a fuss in the house. You'd better get off to bed.”
There was a sound of rapid whispering and then one of the maids enquired:
“Was it a motor accident, sir?”
Dr. Ringwood, anxious not to commit himself to details, made a gesture to the window behind him.
“Don't make a row, please. Mr. Hassendean mustn't be disturbed in any way. Get off to bed as soon as you can, and keep quiet. By the way, when do you expect the rest of the family home?”
“They've gone out to play bridge, sir,” answered the maid who had spoken before. “Usually they get home about half-past eleven.”
“Good. I shall have to wait for them.”