“He didn’t appear at any local station yesterday or this morning; and he didn’t use a motor of any sort that I’ve been able to trace. I’ve had men on that job and it’s been thoroughly done.”
“Congratulations, Inspector.”
“If he hasn’t got away, then he must be somewhere in the neighborhood still.”
“I should say that was indisputable, if not certain,” commented Sir Clinton, with a return of his faintly chaffing manner. “A man can only be in one place at once, if you follow me. And if he’s not there, then he must be here.”
“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere around. It’s what any one might do if they found themselves up to the hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter, and got into a panic over it.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence.
“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to take charge of things up there.”
“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Sir Clinton put the subject aside.