Sir Clinton looked round.
“Marden? That’s not Marden. I tell you, Inspector, if that jump of his meant anything, it suggests that there’s no Marden at all.”
The Inspector’s amazement overbore his chagrin.
“I don’t understand . . .” he began.
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Get away down to the water-side at once. See if he’s badly damaged. Quick, now.”
As the Inspector hurried off, the Chief Constable turned to Michael Clifton.
“History doesn’t always repeat itself exactly, you see.”
He pulled out a match-box and lit his cigarette in a leisurely fashion. Then, throwing away the vesta, he inquired:
“You see now how he got away from you last time?”
Michael made no reply. He was examining the pedestal from which the living statue had taken its flight; and he could see the scores and cuts left by the chisel which had smoothed the standing-place of the original marble figure. Quite obviously, on the night of the masked ball, the same trick had been played; and while the pursuers were searching all around, the fugitive had stood rigid above them, unsuspected by any one.