“There was no such ring on your brother’s finger when I made my examination,” remarked Blick. “But now—I’ll see into the matter.”
Harry and Valencia went back to the morning-room, and the others made for the front door. But before they reached it, another interruption in their progress towards Chilford’s hospitable table occurred. A young, alert-looking man, who held a note-book in one hand, and pencil in the other, came up.
“Mr. Chief Constable,” he said, with confident assurance, “allow me to introduce myself—Mr. Summers, of the Daily Sentinel—specially sent down, sir.”
“What do you want?” asked the Chief Constable. He was thinking of Chilford’s cold roast beef, and had a natural dislike of reporters. “Nothing more to tell you than what you’ve heard.”
“I should be obliged if you’d show me the five-pound note which the presumed American gave to Grimsdale,” said Mr. Summers, “and the tobacco pipe which was left at the Sceptre.”
The Chief Constable turned to Blick.
“Any objection to that?” he asked.
“I should say that Mr. Blick—from what I happen to know of his great abilities—has no objection,” interposed Mr. Summers, who was clearly one of those young men who leave no stone unturned in the effort to build up good copy. “Mr. Blick, sir, knows the value of publicity—especially in a journal of our immense circulation—as well as I do.”
“No objection at all,” said Blick, laughing. “There’s the note—I suppose you want the number? B. H. 887563. The pipe—that’s on the table inside—the police have it. Here, I’ll show it to you.”
He went back into the old dining-room with Summers; the others waited, chatting about Valencia’s information respecting the ring. A few minutes passed; then Blick, looking slightly puzzled, put his head into the hall.