“I will!” declared the Chief Constable. “I shall be justified on what we know already. Come on—we’ll get a trap at the Sceptre.”
Half an hour later, when he and Blick drove up to the police-station, they met Crewe, the solicitor, emerging from it. He gave the Chief Constable a dry, shrewd smile.
”Um!” he said, drawing him aside. “Pretty arbitrary in your treatment of Mrs. B., I think! However, under my advice, she’ll now tell you what you wanted to know. And after that, if I were you, I should just let her go quietly home. She’s pretty furious—and she’s given me certain instructions that’ll possibly help you—though between you and me, I think she’s a fool for doing it!”
“I don’t understand you,” said the Chief Constable curtly.
Crewe waved a sheet of paper which he carried towards the police-station.
“Go in and see her, then!” he retorted.
The Chief Constable motioned Blick to follow him to his room. One of the plain-clothes men stood outside; inside sat Mrs. Braxfield, conversing amicably with the other two, who, at a sign from their superior, went out.
“Well, Mrs. Braxfield,” said the Chief Constable as he seated himself at his desk, “we’ve just seen your solicitor, and he tells me you are now going to give me the information I wanted. But I may as well tell you I’m a bit tired of this, and I want straightforward answers to my questions. Now then—is that automatic pistol that you’ve been using, to scare foxes with, one that was given you by Mr. Harry Markenmore?”
“Yes!” answered Mrs. Braxfield sullenly.
“For what purpose did he give it to you?”