“No, I didn’t, I wasn’t looking for that. I see you still distrust me,” he added quickly, “but I am perfectly honest about it. I am sorry I came.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I returned carelessly. “If you hadn’t been there, the signs might have proved that Clevedon hadn’t either, whereas now it is an open question. But the fact that somebody may have been there is of minor importance unless there is accompanying evidence that the somebody was Clevedon himself. Of course, there is the fact that he alone knew of the entrance—he and one other. I suppose you haven’t been here lately?”
I turned suddenly on Kitty Clevedon and rapped out the question with the abruptness of a pistol shot. She started a little, then shook her head.
“Not since I was a child,” she replied.
“Can we get out of this without returning by that passage?” I asked.
“Yes, through that door is a flight of stone steps leading to what used to be the kitchen of the old White Abbey.”
“We’ll go that way,” I decided.
When I had parted from my two companions, with a promise to see them again later in the day, or, possibly on the following morning, I went into the post office and from my waistcoat pocket produced a hairpin.
“Have you any of that sort in stock?” I asked, then, noting her look of surprise, I added, “I hope you won’t give me away if I tell you that I use them to clean my pipe. They are the best things I know for that.”
“Well, I didn’t suppose you wanted them for your hair,” she said pertly. “Yes, we have plenty of that sort in stock. Indeed, I don’t think we have any others.”