“Now you mention it, I remember hearing Maurice say something about a fellow—a Yankee—who was writing a book on Leonardo. That chap certainly came here one day and Maurice showed him the stuff. The medallions were what he chiefly wanted to look at, of course.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No. None of us saw him except Maurice.”
Sir Clinton made no comment; and they walked on in silence till they came to the house. Inspector Armadale was by this time completely at sea.
“Find that chauffeur, Inspector, please; and bring him along. I’ve got one or two points which need clearing up.”
When the chauffeur arrived it was evident that Armadale had not been mistaken when he described him as stupid-looking. Information had to be dragged out of him by minute questioning.
“Your name’s Brackley, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton began.
“Yes, sir. Joe Brackley.”
“Now, Brackley, don’t be in a hurry with your replies. I want you to think carefully. First of all, on the day that Mr. Foss was murdered, he ordered you to bring the car round to the front door.”
“Yes, sir. I was to wait for him if he wasn’t there.”