“Here’s Mr. Clifton coming, sir.”
Sir Clinton turned round to find that Michael Clifton had approached while he was engaged with the dragging operations. Leaving the group by the bank, he walked slowly to meet the advancing figure.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. Come up to see how we’re getting on, I suppose. There’s nothing to report, I’m afraid.”
“Drawn blank?” Michael inquired, needlessly. “There ought to be something there, all the same.”
“It may have been only a stone,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “You heard a splash; that’s all we have to go on. And a stone would make that as well as anything else.”
“That’s true,” Michael admitted. “None of us saw the thing hit the water, so we’ve no notion what it was like. It might have been a stone for all we can tell. But why should the fellow pitch a brick into the water? That’s what puzzles me.”
Before Sir Clinton could reply, a shout came from the bank, and the Inspector waved to them to come down.
“We’ve got something, sir,” he called, as they drew nearer.
Followed by Michael, Sir Clinton hurried up to the group at the water’s edge. The Inspector was kneeling down, carefully disentangling the grapnel from something white. At last he rose and held out his capture. Michael gave an exclamation.
“A white jacket!”