“I don’t know so much,” muttered the Inspector. “In my opinion I am being deliberately baffled on all sides. You can throw no light on this matter, then?”
“None,” I answered, shortly, and Paul Harley shook his head.
“But you must remember, Inspector,” he explained, “that the entire household was in a state of unrest.”
“In other words, everybody was waiting for this very thing to happen?”
“Consciously, or subconsciously, everybody was.”
“What do you mean by consciously or subconsciously?”
“I mean that those of us who were aware of the previous attempts on
the life of the Colonel apprehended this danger. And I believe that
something of this apprehension had extended even to the servants.”
“Oh, to the servants? Now, I have seen all the servants, except the
chef, who lives at a house on the outskirts of Mid-Hatton, as you may
know. Can you give me any information about this man?”
“I have seen him,” replied Harley, “and have congratulated him upon his culinary art. His name, I believe, is Deronne. He is a Spaniard, and a little fat man. Quite an amiable creature,” he added.
“Hm.” The Inspector cleared his throat noisily.
“If that is all,” said Harley, “I should welcome an opportunity of a few hours’ sleep.”