“That wouldn't be so difficult,” Sir Clinton rejoined. “This road runs right from the bungalow to the end of Lauderdale Avenue. He'd only to keep his car straight and recognise the turn when he came to it. It wasn't a case of having to dodge through a network of streets.”
A thought seemed to occur to him.
“By the way, doctor, did you notice any peculiar coincidence in dates that we've come across?”
“Dates? No, can't say I did. What do you mean?”
“Well,” the Chief Constable pointed out deliberately, “the date on that scrap from the torn envelope we found in the drawer was 1925, and the figures on that mysterious signet-ring were 5–11–25. It just happened to strike me.”
His manner suggested that he had no desire to furnish any further information. Dr. Ringwood changed the subject.
“By the way, you didn't examine the lever handle of the window for finger-prints,” he said, with a note of interrogation in his voice.
“The Inspector will do that. He's very thorough. In any case, I don't expect to find much on the lever.”
For a few moments Sir Clinton concentrated his attention on his driving, as they were now within the outskirts of Westerhaven. When he spoke again, his remark struck the doctor as obscure.
“I wish that poor girl who was done in at Heatherfield last night hadn't been such a tidy creature.”