"GX. 6061."
He came round the car again and subjected the whole interior to a minute scrutiny under the light of his flashlamp.
"Here’s a girl’s handkerchief lying on the floor," he said, as he peered down at the place beside the driver. Then, holding it in the light from the side-lamp, he turned it over and reported.
"It’s got ‘Y.S.’ embroidered in one corner. That would be for Yvonne Silverdale, I suppose. It doesn’t take us much further. Except that it proves this was the car she went off in with young Hassendean, and I expect we could have got better proof of that elsewhere."
"Nothing else you can find?" Sir Clinton inquired.
"No, sir."
Before the Chief Constable could say anything further, two figures loomed up through the fog and a startled exclamation in a female voice reached the group around the car. Sir Clinton caught Dr. Ringwood’s arm and whispered hurriedly in his ear:
"The maids coming back to the house. Spin them a yarn that young Hassendean’s met with an accident and been brought home. Tell them who you are. We don’t want to have them in hysterics."
Dr. Ringwood moved towards the dim figures in the fog.
"I’m Dr. Ringwood," he explained. "I suppose you’re the maids, aren’t you? You must go in very quietly. Young Mr. Hassendean’s had a bad accident and mustn’t be disturbed. He’s in the room to the right as you go in at the door, so don’t make a fuss in the house. You’d better get off to bed."
There was a sound of rapid whispering and then one of the maids enquired:
"Was it a motor accident, sir?"
Dr. Ringwood, anxious not to commit himself to details, made a gesture to the window behind him.
"Don’t make a row, please. Mr. Hassendean mustn’t be disturbed in any way. Get off to bed as soon as you can, and keep quiet. By the way, when do you expect the rest of the family home?"
"They’ve gone out to play bridge, sir," answered the maid who had spoken before. "Usually they get home about half-past eleven."
"Good. I shall have to wait for them."
The bolder of the two maids had advanced as he was speaking, and now she stared suspiciously at him in the dim light from the car lamps.
"Excuse me, sir," she ventured. "How do I know that it’s all right?"
"You mean I might be a burglar, I suppose?" Dr. Ringwood answered patiently. "Well, here’s Inspector Flamborough. He’s surely protection enough for you."
The maid examined Flamborough with relief.
"Oh, that’s all right, sir. I saw Inspector Flamborough once at the police sports. That’s him, right enough. I’m sorry to have been a bit suspicious, sir——"
"Quite right," Dr. Ringwood reassured her. "Now, just get off to bed, will you. We’ve got the patient to think about."
"Is it a bad accident, sir?"
"Very serious, perhaps. Talking won’t mend it, anyhow."
Dr. Ringwood’s temper was becoming slightly frayed by the maid’s persistence. However, she took the hint and retired with her companion into the house. Inspector Flamborough made a gesture which arrested them at the door.
"By the way, when did young Mr. Hassendean leave the house to-night?" he demanded.
"I couldn’t say, sir. We left ourselves at seven o’clock. Mr. Hassendean and Miss Hassendean were just going out then—they were dining out. And Mr. Ronald was dressing, I think. He was going out to dinner, too."
Flamborough dismissed them, and they vanished into the hall. Sir Clinton gave them a reasonable time to get out of the way before making any further move. The Inspector occupied himself with writing a note in his pocket-book.
"I think we may as well go into the house again," the Chief Constable suggested. "Just fasten that front door after us, Inspector, if you please. We may as well have some warning when the family turns up."
He led the way up the steps, entered the hall, and, after opening one or two doors at random, selected the drawing-room of the house, in which a banked-up fire was burning.
"We may as well wait here. It’s to be hoped they won’t be long, now. Sit down, doctor."
Then, noticing the expression on Dr. Ringwood’s face, he continued:
"I’m sorry to detain you, doctor; but now we’ve got you, I think we’ll have to keep you until the Hassendeans come in. One never knows what may turn up. They may have something to tell us which might need medical checking and you’ve been too much of a gift from the gods to part with so long as there’s a chance of our utilising you."
Dr. Ringwood tried to make his acquiescence a cheerful one, though he was thinking regretfully of his bed.
"It’s all in the day’s work," he said. "I’m only a bit worried about that case of scarlet next door. I’ll have to look in there before I go."
"So shall we," Sir Clinton explained. "Once we’ve got all the evidence from the family, we’ll need to ring up and get the body taken off to the mortuary. You say we can telephone from the house next door?"
"Yes. I had to go there to ring you up myself. The Hassendeans have no ’phone."
"We’ll go round with you then. . . . H’m! There’s the door-bell, Inspector. You’d better attend to it. Bring them in here, please."
Flamborough hurried out of the room; they heard some muffled talk broken by ejaculations of surprise and horror; and then the Inspector ushered Mr. and Miss Hassendean into the drawing-room. Dr. Ringwood was unfavourably impressed at the first glance. Mr. Hassendean was a red-faced, white-haired man of about seventy, with a feebly blustering manner. His sister, some five years younger, aped the air and dress of women twenty years her junior.
"What this? What’s this, eh?" Mr. Hassendean demanded as he came into the room. "God bless my soul! My nephew shot? What does it mean, eh?"
"That’s what we should like to know, sir," Inspector Flamborough’s quiet voice cut into the frothing torrent of the old man’s eloquence. "We’re depending on you to throw some light on the affair."
"On me?" Mr. Hassendean’s voice seemed to strain itself in the vain attempt to express his feelings at the Inspector’s suggestion. "I’m not a policeman, my good fellow; I’m a retired drysalter. God bless me! Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?"
He paused, apparently unable to find words for a moment.
"Now, look here, my good man," he went on, "I come home and I find you occupying my house, and you tell me that my young nephew has been shot. He’s a good-for-nothing cub, I admit; but that’s beside the point. I want to know who’s to blame for it. That’s a simple enough question, surely. And instead of answering it, you have the nerve to ask me to do your work for you! What do we pay police rates for, tell me that! And who are these men in my drawing-room? How did they come here?"
"This is Sir Clinton Driffield; this is Dr. Ringwood," the Inspector answered smoothly, taking no notice of Mr. Hassendean’s other remarks.
"Ah! I’ve heard of you, Sir Clinton," Mr. Hassendean acknowledged, less ungraciously. "Well, what about it?"
"We’ve met under rather unfortunate conditions, Mr. Hassendean," Sir Clinton admitted soothingly, "but they’re none of our choosing, you know. I quite understand your feelings; it must be a bad shock to come home to an affair like this. But I hope you’ll see your way to give us any information you have—anything that will assist us to get on the track of the person who shot your nephew. We really depend on you to help us at once, for every hour lost may make it more difficult to lay our hands on the criminal. Without knowing it, you may have the key to the thing in your hands."
More by his manner than by his words, the Chief Constable had succeeded in pacifying the old man.
"Well, if it’s put like that, I don’t mind," he conceded, with a slight lessening in the asperity of his tone. "Ask your questions and I’ll see what I can do for you."