Stepping softly on to the flower-bed which lay under the window-sill, he bent down until his eye was level with the chink between the curtains and peered through into the room.
“That's interesting,” he said, as he turned again to face his companions. “One gets quite a good view of the room from here; and it looks as if somebody had taken advantage of it last night. Nobody would attempt to look into a shut-up house in the dark, so presumably the lights were on when he took the trouble to put his eye to the crack.”
The Inspector made no pretence of concealing his delight.
“If we could only get hold of him. Perhaps he saw the murder actually done, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed disinclined to rejoice too fervently.
“It's all pure hypothesis,” he pointed out, rather frigidly.
Flamborough's rectitude forced him into a semi-apology for past doubts.
“You were quite right about Mr. Justice, sir. He's been a trump-card; and if we can only get hold of him and find out what he saw here last night, the rest ought to be as easy as kiss-your-hand.”
Sir Clinton could not restrain a smile.
“You're devilish previous, Inspector, in spite of all I can do. This Peeping Tom may be Mr. Justice, or again he may not. There isn't any evidence either way.”