“I'm not after anything in particular, squire,” he assured Wendover. “I simply don't see my way through the business yet. I merely recommend the subject for you to browse over. As they say about Shakespeare, new perspectives open up before one's eyes every time one examines the subject afresh. And, by the way, hypophosphites are said to be sustaining during a long spell of intense cogitation. I think we'll call at the druggist's on the way home and buy up his stock. There's more in this affair than meets the eye.” The inspector picked up the sack. Then, apparently struck by an after-thought, he laid it on the floor again and took out his note-book. “Would you mind giving me any orders you want carried out immediately, sir?” he asked. “Anything in the way of information you need from the village?” Sir Clinton looked at him in mock surprise, and answered with a parody of the “Needy Knifegrinder”: “Orders! God bless you! I have none to give, sir. This is your case, inspector, not mine.” Armadale succeeded in finding a form of words to turn the flank of his superior's line: “Well, sir, suppose you were in my place, what would you think it useful to find out?” “A deuce of a lot of things, inspector. Who killed Peter Hay, for one. Who stole the diary, for another. When I'm likely to get any lunch, for a third. And so on. There's heaps more of them, if you'll think them up. But, if I were in your shoes, I'd make a beginning by interviewing young Colby, who found the body; then I'd investigate the sweet-shop, and find out who bought pear-drops there lately; I'd make sure there are no fingerprints on any of the silver; I'd get the P. M. done as quickly as possible, since amyl nitrite is volatile, and might disappear if the body's left too long; and I think I'd make some very cautious inquiries about this long-lost nephew, if he's anywhere in the vicinity. And, of course, I'd try to find out all I could about Peter Hay's last movements yesterday, so far as one can discover them from witnesses.” Inspector Armadale had been jotting the chief constable's advice down in shorthand; and, when Sir Clinton finished speaking, he shut his note-book and put it back in his pocket. “Peter Hay puzzles me,” Wendover said thoughtfully, as they made their way to the car. “Perhaps Peter Hay knew too much for his own safety,” Sir Clinton answered, as he closed the door of Foxhills behind them. A fresh line of thought occurred to Wendover. “This missing nephew came from Australia, Clinton. I'm playing golf to-morrow morning with that Australian man who's staying at the hotel. He isn't the missing heir by any chance, is he?” “I shouldn't think so, from Miss Fordingbridge's story. This claimant was pretty badly disfigured, whereas Cargill's rather a nice-looking chap. Also, she's sure to have come across Cargill in the hotel; he's been here for a week at least; but the claimant-man only presented himself to her last night, if you remember.” Chapter VI