“I certainly will, Major—my word for it.”
“Well, of all the dashed——I’m done! I’m winded! I’m simply scooped dry! Where on earth did you get your clues, man? You never did anything but walk about that I could see; and now to declare——I say, MacTavish, did you hear that? Did you hear what he has promised—eh?”
“I heard,” responded the captain with a laugh. “But I’ll believe when I see. I say, Mr. Inspector, where did you find the secret? Hidden between Farrow’s fingers or wrapped around Chocolate Maid’s legs?”
“Both,” said Cleek serenely. “Tell you something else if you care to hear it. I know who poisoned the dog the other night. Farrow did it himself.”
The major’s exclamation of indignation was quite lost in the peal of the captain’s laughter.
“Hawkshaw out-Hawkshawed!” cried he derisively. “Find out that, too, from Farrow’s fingers?”
“Oh, no—that would be impossible. He washed them before he went out that night and they’ve been washed by the nurse several times since. I found it out from the dog himself—and he’s not the only dog in this little business, believe me—though I’m willing to stake my reputation and my life upon it that neither one nor the other of them had any hand in spiriting away the missing horse.”
“Who did, then, Mr. Cleek? who did?”
“Tom Farrow and Tom Farrow alone, Major,” began Cleek—and then stopped suddenly, interrupted by a painful circumstance.
By this time they had reached the foot of the stairs and were filing out into the stable again, and there by the open door Lady Mary Norcross was standing endeavouring to soothe and to comfort a weeping girl—Maggie McFarland, the dairymaid from Nairn.