“Now,” said Sir Clinton as he started the engine, “would you mind directing me?”
Joan, from the terrace, indicated how he was to manœuvre until he had brought his own car into a position as near as possible to that occupied by Foss’s car on the afternoon of the murder.
“That’s as near as I can get it,” she said at last.
Sir Clinton turned in his seat and scanned the front of Ravensthorpe.
“What window is this that I’m opposite?” he inquired.
“That’s the window of the museum,” Joan explained. “But you can’t see into the room, can you? You’re too low down there.”
“Nothing more than the tops of the cases,” Sir Clinton said. “You’d better get aboard, Inspector. There’s nothing more to do here.”
He waved good-bye to Joan as Armadale stepped into the car, and then drove down the avenue. The Inspector said nothing until they had passed out of the Ravensthorpe grounds and were on the high road again. Then he turned eagerly to the Chief Constable.
“That was a splash of blood you found on the wall of the underground room, wasn’t it? I recognized it at once.”
“Don’t get excited about it, Inspector,” said Sir Clinton soothingly. “Of course it was blood; but we needn’t shout about it from the house-tops, need we?”