“Now, you’d better get to your places,” he said, turning to the squad again. “Remember, not a sound. I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait, but we must take things as they come.”
As the squad was led off into the night, he moved over to where the Inspector was standing.
“I want something out of the car,” he said. The Inspector followed him and waited while Sir Clinton switched off the headlights and the tail lamp. The Chief Constable felt in a locker and handed something to Armadale.
“A pair of night-glasses, Inspector. You’ll need them. And that’s the lot. We’d better get to our position. There’s no saying when the fellow may begin his work.”
Rather to the mystification of the Inspector, Sir Clinton struck across the grass instead of following the avenue up to the house. After a fairly long walk they halted under a large tree.
“A touch of fantasy was what I recommended to you, Inspector. I think a little tree-climbing is indicated. Sling these glasses round your neck as I’m doing and follow on.”
“Quite mad!” was the Inspector’s involuntary comment to himself. “I suppose, once we get up there, he’ll come down again and tell me I needed exercise.”
He followed the Chief Constable, however; and was at last directed to a branch on which he could find a safe seat.
“Think I’m demented, Inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded with the accuracy of a thought-reader. “It’s not quite so bad as that, you’ll be glad to hear. Turn your glasses through that rift in the leaves. I was at special pains to cut it yesterday evening, in preparation for you. What do you see?”
The Inspector focused his glasses and scanned the scene visible through the fissure in the foliage.