The captive showed much more surprise. “Why, it’s Driffield, so it is! Well, if that isn’t the damnedest luck. There’s no keepin’ out o’ the way o’ you busies, it seems. But you’re on the wrong track this shot. I never laid a finger on this fellow.” He indicated Roger Shandon’s body as he spoke. “Nobody’s accused you of laying a finger on him. Or of anything else—yet,” said Sir Clinton, curtly. “I’ll listen to your story later on. Don’t waste time elaborating it. You’ll find the plain truth’s best. This is more serious than illicit diamond buying.” He paused for an instant, then continued: “Now I think of it, you were Shandon’s cat’s paw that time I got my hands on you at Kimberley.” Then, as Costock opened his mouth in protest, Sir Clinton cut him short abruptly: “I’d keep my mouth shut, if I were you. Nobody’s asking you to incriminate yourself.” The hint was sufficient for the ex-I.D.B. expert. His protest died on his lips. Sir Clinton paid no further attention to him, but set about a careful examination of the body of Roger Shandon. As he rose to his feet again, Stenness came forward. “This is Mr. Howard Torrance, Sir Clinton, a guest at the house. He was in the Maze at the moment when the murder was done. Torrance, this is the Chief Constable.” He turned to the gardener. “This is Skene, Sir Clinton, one of the gardeners on the estate. He came with me here as soon as we learned what had happened.” Sir Clinton nodded a brief appreciation of Stenness’s explanations. The secretary had wasted no words over the business, and yet had given all the information necessary at the moment. Howard Torrance, thus brought to the front, seized the opportunity offered to him. “Some darts here. Skene found them at the foot of the hedge. Lid of a tin box was lying beside them as well.” Sir Clinton picked up the lid and inspected the tiny missiles which had been collected. “Air-gun darts, evidently,” he commented. Characteristically enough, he did not call attention to the equally obvious fact that they were not ordinary air-gun darts. The woollen feathering, instead of showing the usual gaudy colours, was stained brown; and a rusty powder seemed to cling to the fibre. A tiny patch of the same pigment showed on the metal jackets of the darts, near the points. Sir Clinton put the collection down again carefully. “Now, Skene,” he said, turning to the gardener, “that was a good piece of work of yours. Can you show me exactly where you found these things?” Obviously delighted with the Chief Constable’s compliment, Skene was only too ready to indicate the precise position where he had picked up the darts and the box-lid. “You got the lot, I suppose? At least all you could see from here?”