“We planned that . . .”
“I know all about that,” said Sir Clinton, brusquely. “Begin at the point where you came in here at twenty to twelve or so.”
Foxy pulled himself together. The Chief Constable’s manner was not encouraging.
“I came in here as arranged, and worked my way over to the central case there—slowly, so as not to attract the keeper’s attention. One or two other people were hanging round it then, too. I remember noticing a chap in a white Pierrot costume alongside me. Suddenly there was a pistol-shot and the light went out according to plan.”
“How do you account for the pistol-shot?” demanded Sir Clinton.
“Try next door,” said Foxy. “I thought it was a fancy tip that Cecil had thrown in at the last moment. It wasn’t in the book of words.”
“You were ready to get to work when the light went out?” inquired Sir Clinton.
Foxy considered for a moment.
“It took me rather by surprise,” he admitted. “I’d counted on having at least another minute, according to the time-table.”
“What happened next? Be careful now.”