But Stamford did not seem to hear; he was examining himself in a broken-framed mirror above the desk.
"I need bucking up. Meals—change of air—new methods and manners—something doesn't agree with me. I can't sleep."
"Never mind explaining," grunted the Inspector. "I'm not interested in your health. Here's West now. I've an appointment with him."
"By the way, West," he said, as the brand-inspector entered, "the local scribe is enquiring why we didn't arrest the whole countryside for Faircloth's murder that day."
West smiled in some confusion.
The Inspector laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, West, you're as critical as he. But if you—or Stamford here—had given me that day the details you've remembered since, other things might have happened."
"But I knew—I saw everything!" stammered Stamford.
"And told so little," snapped the Inspector. "So many after-thoughts are too late!"
He waved Stamford out. As the editor passed through the door he turned.
"Honest now, Inspector, whom do you suspect?"