“There are certain lacunae in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling story, constable,” went on Hart.
“Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a lacuna, or its plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying to be civil.
“Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em in. When, where, and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy adornments?”
The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had scored a point, though he knew not how.
“He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum business, that’s what it is, no matter what way you look at it.”
Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front, accepted the olive branch readily.
“We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have ten minutes to spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt.”
“Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,” admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with “the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of information and good food.
What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old pony he had been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house?
Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire.