“No, sir. He seemed to be tryin’ to keep out of her road if anythin’. But o’ course it gave her a start. She took and ran—and small blame to her, I think. She’s only eleven or so, an’ it gave her a dreadful fright. An’ of course next day this tale was all over the country-side. I wonder if you didn’t hear it yourself, sir.”
“It’s news to me, Mold, I’m afraid. Even the police can’t know everything, you see. Now before you go I want something more from you. That night when you were on guard in the museum, you remember. Do you recall seeing any one there at any time during the evening dressed in cow-boy clothes? You know, the kind of thing in the Wild West films.”
Mold pondered for a time, evidently racking his memory.
“No, sir. I remember nobody like that. I think I’d have recalled it if I had. I’m rather keen on films about cow-boys myself, and if I’d seen a cow-boy I’d have had a good look at him, just out o’ curiosity.”
Sir Clinton had apparently got all he needed from Mold just then; and he sent him away quite reassured that his visit had not been wasted.
“What do you make of all that, Inspector?” he inquired with a faintly quizzical expression on his face, as soon as the door had closed behind the keeper.
Armadale shook his head. Then, seeing a chance of scoring, he smiled openly.
“I was to keep my ideas to myself, you remember, Sir Clinton.”
The Chief Constable gave him smile for smile.
“That arrangement must be especially useful when you’ve no ideas at all, Inspector.”