But Blick was once more in the hall, and the Chief Constable and the other men followed him.
“Odd, that, Blick!” said the Chief Constable. “Who can have got it—and why?”
“There may be something in what that newspaper chap says,” answered Blick in an undertone. “The man who left it at the Sceptre may have been here this morning, and taken the opportunity to possess himself of it. However——”
“Now come across the park to my house, you fellows, and have some lunch,” broke in Chilford. “All ready—come on!”
Blick excused himself—he had work to do, he said. On the previous day, finding that his labours at Markenmore were likely to be protracted, he had taken rooms at the Sceptre, and thither he now hastened. He had many things in hand; much to think over. That morning, before going to the inquest, he had sent a messenger into Selcaster with instructions to buy certain matter for him: his first question on reaching the Sceptre was—had the messenger returned?
“Parcels on your sitting-room table, Mr. Blick,” answered Grimsdale. “Lunch there, too.”
Blick sat down to his lunch, alone, and ate and drank steadily for half an hour. Then, when the table had been cleared, he lighted his pipe, pulled out his penknife, and cut the string of the parcels that had been sent him from Selcaster.
CHAPTER XI