“Prove my theory,” he returned; “but since every moment is precious, I must move in another direction.”
He hurried on through the opening in the box hedge and into the courtyard. Manoel had just opened the doors to a sepulchral-looking person who proved to be the coroner’s officer, and:
“Manoel!” cried Harley, “tell Carter to bring a car round at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I haven’t time to fetch my own,” he explained.
“Where are you off to?”
“I am off to see the Chief Constable, Knox. Aylesbury must be superseded at whatever cost. If the Chief Constable fails I shall not hesitate to go higher. I will get along to the garage. I don’t expect to be more than an hour. Meanwhile, do your best to act as a buffer between Aylesbury and the women. You understand me?”
“Quite,” I returned, shortly. “But the task may prove no light one, Harley.”
“It won’t,” he assured me, smiling grimly. “How you must regret, Knox, that we didn’t go fishing!”
With that he was off, eager-eyed and alert, the mood of dreamy abstraction dropped like a cloak discarded. He fully realized, as I did, that his unique reputation was at stake. I wondered, as I had wondered at the Guest House, whether, in undertaking to clear Colin Camber, he had acted upon sheer conviction, or, embittered by the death of his client, had taken a gambler’s chance. It was unlike him to do so. But now beyond reach of that charm of manner which Colin Camber possessed, and discounting the pathetic sweetness of his girl-wife, I realized how black was the evidence against him.