“Yes. I had to go there to ring you up myself. The Hassendeans have no 'phone.”
“We'll go round with you then. . . . H'm! There's the door-bell, Inspector. You'd better attend to it. Bring them in here, please.”
Flamborough hurried out of the room; they heard some muffled talk broken by ejaculations of surprise and horror; and then the Inspector ushered Mr. and Miss Hassendean into the drawing-room. Dr. Ringwood was unfavourably impressed at the first glance. Mr. Hassendean was a red-faced, white-haired man of about seventy, with a feebly blustering manner. His sister, some five years younger, aped the air and dress of women twenty years her junior.
“What this? What's this, eh?” Mr. Hassendean demanded as he came into the room. “God bless my soul! My nephew shot? What does it mean, eh?”
“That's what we should like to know, sir,” Inspector Flamborough's quiet voice cut into the frothing torrent of the old man's eloquence. “We're depending on you to throw some light on the affair.”
“On me?” Mr. Hassendean's voice seemed to strain itself in the vain attempt to express his feelings at the Inspector's suggestion. “I'm not a policeman, my good fellow; I'm a retired drysalter. God bless me! Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”
He paused, apparently unable to find words for a moment.
“Now, look here, my good man,” he went on, “I come home and I find you occupying my house, and you tell me that my young nephew has been shot. He's a good-for-nothing cub, I admit; but that's beside the point. I want to know who's to blame for it. That's a simple enough question, surely. And instead of answering it, you have the nerve to ask me to do your work for you! What do we pay police rates for, tell me that! And who are these men in my drawing-room? How did they come here?”
“This is Sir Clinton Driffield; this is Dr. Ringwood,” the Inspector answered smoothly, taking no notice of Mr. Hassendean's other remarks.
“Ah! I've heard of you, Sir Clinton,” Mr. Hassendean acknowledged, less ungraciously. “Well, what about it?”