“Shut, I’m almost certain.”
Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two.
“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.”
Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir Clinton turned and confronted Michael.
“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the truth.”
Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand.
“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you like.”
The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the valet.
Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. Armadale pulled out his notebook once more.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.