“I see that well enough,” Michael protested. “All I asked was what your own views are.”
Sir Clinton smiled and there was a touch of mischief in his eye as he replied.
“Seeing that my conclusions are based on the evidence—at least I like to think so, you know—they’re obviously part and parcel of my official knowledge. Hence I don’t divulge them till the right moment comes.”
He paused to let this sink in, then added lightly:
“That’s a most useful principle, I find. One often makes mistakes, and of course one never divulges them either, until the right time comes. It’s curious, but I’ve never been able yet to satisfy myself that the right time has come in any case of the sort.”
Michael smiled in his turn; and Sir Clinton went on:
“But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t draw your own conclusions and give me the benefit of them. I’m not too proud to be helped, you know.”
For a moment Michael kept silence, as if considering what his next move should be. Sir Clinton had given him what might have looked like a snub; but Michael had acuteness enough to tell him that the matter was one of principle with the Chief Constable and not merely a pretext devised on the spur of the moment to suppress inconvenient curiosity.
“It just occurred to me,” he confessed, “that there’s a possible explanation of that thing they’ve fished up. Do you remember that I found Maurice in the Fairy House up above there”—he indicated the cliff-top with a gesture—“and when I left him there he was still wearing a white costume like this one?”
“So you told us last night,” Sir Clinton confirmed.