A little further shaking of the material showed that it was a complete white Pierrot costume, except for the cap and shoes. The Inspector spread it out on the grass to dry, after holding the jacket outspread in the air so that they could gauge its size by comparison with his own body.
“That’s what I’ve been hoping to get hold of, Inspector,” Sir Clinton said. “I doubt if you’ll find much more in the pool. But perhaps you’d better go on dragging for a while yet. Something else might turn up.”
He examined the costume carefully; but it was quite evident that there were no identifying marks on it. During the inspection, Michael showed signs of impatience; and as soon as he could he unostentatiously drew Sir Clinton away from the group.
“Come up here, Mr. Clifton,” the Chief Constable suggested, as he turned towards the hillock he had chosen earlier in the morning. “We can keep an eye on things from this place.”
He sat down and Michael, after a glance to see that they were out of earshot of the dragging party, followed his example.
“What do you make of that?” he demanded eagerly.
Sir Clinton seemed to have little desire to discuss the matter.
“Let’s be quite clear on one point before we begin,” he reminded Michael. “I’m a Chief Constable, not a broadcasting station. My business is to collect information, not to throw it abroad before the proper time comes. You understand?”
Rather dashed, Michael admitted the justice of this.
“I’m a public servant, Mr. Clifton,” Sir Clinton pointed out, his manner taking the edge off the directness of his remarks, “and I get my information officially. Obviously it wouldn’t be playing the game if I scattered that information around before the public service has had the use of it.”