“I’ll admit that this is more businesslike.”
The Constabulary line crept forward almost foot by foot, subjecting every one of the marble seats to the most rigid scrutiny. Inspector Armadale’s anxiety was more and more apparent as the cordon advanced without securing the man for whom they were searching. At last the whole of the possible cover had been beaten, and the constables emerged on the open terrace. The fugitive had vanished, apparently, into thin air.
Michael Clifton turned to the Chief Constable with an ironical smile.
“Just the same as last time, it seems. How history repeats itself!”
The Inspector hurried across the terrace to where they were standing. It was obvious that he was completely staggered by the turn of events.
“He’s got away, sir,” he reported in a mortified voice. “I can’t think how he’s managed it.”
“I think we’ll repeat that last stage again, Inspector, if you don’t mind. Withdraw your men till they’re just in front of that last line of seats.”
While the Inspector was giving his orders Sir Clinton pulled his case from his pocket, opened it, and thoughtfully tapped a cigarette on the lid. Before lighting it he threw a glance up and down the empty spaces of the terrace from which the fugitive had so mysteriously vanished.
“All plain and above board, isn’t it?” he said, turning to his two companions. “I’ve got nothing in my hands except a cigarette, and you can search my sleeves if you like. It is required, as Euclid would say, to produce a full-sized burglar for the satisfaction of the audience. It’s a stiff job.”
He glanced again over the wide white pavement of the terrace.