Cecil favoured the Chief Constable with an angry look; but the expression on Sir Clinton’s face convinced him that it was useless to offer any further opposition.
“Very well,” he snarled. “I’ll open the thing, since I must.”
Sir Clinton took no notice of his anger.
“So long as you open it the rest doesn’t matter. I’ve no desire to pry into things that don’t concern me. I don’t wish to know how the panel opens. Inspector, I think we’ll turn our backs while Mr. Chacewater works the mechanism.”
They faced about. Cecil took a few steps into the bay. There was a sharp snap; and when they turned round again a door gaped in the panelling at the end of the room.
“Quite so,” said Sir Clinton. “Most ingenious.”
His voice had regained its normal easy tone; and now he seemed anxious to smooth over the ill-feeling which had come to so acute a pitch in the last few minutes.
“Will you go first, Cecil, and show us the way? I expect it’s difficult for a stranger. I’ve brought an electric torch. Here, you’d better take it.”
Now that he had failed in his attempt, Cecil seemed to recover his temper again. He took the torch from the Chief Constable and, pressing the spring to light it, stepped through the open panel.
“I think we’ll lock the museum door before we go down,” Sir Clinton suggested. “There’s no need to expose this entrance to any one who happens to come in.”