“You can go now; but you’ll have to stay in the village for a day or two. You’ll be wanted at the inquest. I may as well tell you that you’ll be watched, so it’s no use trying to bolt.” He dismissed the Ex-I.D.B. with scant ceremony; handed his dog over to the care of the constable with orders to take it to the Grange; and then went down the steps to Wendover’s car. CHAPTER VI. The Toxicologist “The next port of call, Squire, will be Dr. Ardsley’s,” Sir Clinton informed his companion as they seated themselves in the car. “And you can put a bit of hurry into it, if you like.” Wendover’s appearance had earned him the kindly nickname which the Chief Constable used. He was one of those red-faced, hearty country gentlemen who, on first acquaintance, give an entirely erroneous impression of themselves. Met casually, he might quite easily have appeared to be a slightly fussy person of very limited intellect and even more restricted interests; but behind that façade lived a fairly acute brain which took a certain sly delight in exaggerating the misleading mannerisms. Wendover was anything but a fool, though he liked to pose as one. “All right,” he said, as the pace of the car increased. “It won’t take long to get there. But what do you know about Ardsley? Never mentioned him to you, so far as I can remember.” “Well, don’t put off any longer. Tell me something about him now,” suggested Sir Clinton. “All I know is that he’s an expert in poisons or something of that sort.” Wendover pricked up his ears. “‘Poisons,’ sez you? You don’t think . . .” But Sir Clinton was not to be drawn so easily. “You’re quite right, Squire. I don’t think. I never caught the knack of it, somehow. Just tell me all about Ardsley, will you, and put it in a nutshell, for we haven’t much time.” “Ardsley?” Wendover ruminated, “Ardsley’s one of these damned vivisectionists. Doesn’t even need to do it for a living, either; just cuts up dogs and cats for pleasure, I suppose, since he’s got a private income. He’s one of these cold-blooded beggars, all brains and no emotions, and that sort of thing. Swarms up mountains for amusement, they say—quite good at it, too. Member of Alpine Club, I believe. He’s a good fisherman; got an eye like a hawk and seems to have the devil’s own luck in clearing the streams round about here. He had a row with Roger Shandon over that, I remember.” He pondered for a moment. “That seems all about Ardsley.” A fresh subject occurred to him. “Not arresting anybody yet, Clinton? Seems funny to have two murders and no arrests. Aren’t you afraid of letting the fellow slip through your fingers?” “Not very,” the Chief Constable reassured him. “I’m having Costock shadowed—I gave instructions to the constable about it. The rest of the Whistlefield people can’t budge either, for they’ll be wanted at the inquest to give evidence.” “But the fellow might bolt in the meanwhile.”