"Switzerland!" repeated Lacey in his drawling Irish voice. "Not me. I've had measles. Measles — if you'd believe it! Nothing but milk for nine days and a whole month in bed." His pleasant, cameo-like face twisted into an expression of wry disgust.
"And milk is so fattening," laughed Murray. "Talking of fat, did you ever know a man called Sorrell?"
The jockey's pale bright eyes trickled over the inspector like twin drops of icy water and came back to Murray. The whip, which had been swinging pendulum-wise from his first finger, swung slowly to a halt.
"I think I can remember a Sorrell," he said, after some cogitation, "but he wasn't fat. Wasn't Charlie Baddeley's clerk called Sorrell?"
But Murray could not recall Charlie Baddeley's clerk.
"Would you recognize a sketch?" asked the inspector, and took Struwwelpeter's impressionistic portrait from his pocketbook.
Lacey took it and looked at it admiringly. "It's good, isn't it! Yes; that's old Baddeley's clerk, all right."
"And where can I find Baddeley?" asked Grant.
"Well, that's rather a difficult question," said Lacey, the tight smile back at his mouth. "You see, Baddeley died over two years ago."
"Oh? And you haven't seen Sorrell since?"