“I’m sorry,” Cynthia interposed firmly, but still smiling, “but I can’t possibly. None at all. I’m sorry. Why don’t you go up to Mr. Foster’s and see my husband?” “That’s the gentleman who spoke to the young woman in the garden,” interposed the Inspector with paternal helpfulness. The Colonel, still under the influence of Cynthia’s smile, did not wither him with biting sarcasm; he just nodded. “Yes, that’s quite a good idea, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said mildly. “I will. Thank you. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” “Not at all,” said Cynthia politely, and closed the door on her smile. As she walked back to the drawing-room, followed by a respectful George, the smile disappeared. “And I hope that husband of mine will enjoy the interview,” said Cynthia, quite viciously. “I fancy he won’t find the Colonel quite such easy game as that poor dear old Inspector.” George was inclined to agree with her. In the meantime the poor dear old Inspector was walking (at a quite unnecessary pace, as he felt) along the road beside his superior, and as they walked the effects of the smile wore off for both of them. To the Chief Constable the world slowly ceased to be a rose-coloured place, full of sweet things and noble thoughts, and became once more a drab-coloured concern, where people do very naughty things indeed; to the Inspector it became a place where solid worth and invaluable experience do not always meet their due. “In the Garfield Case, sir,” observed the Inspector in somewhat dogged tones, evidently resuming a previous conversation, “the first thing I did was to measure up the furniture in the room where the murder had been committed.” “Why?” asked the Colonel shortly. Like most people who had come into contact with Inspector Cottingham for more than five minutes at a time, the Colonel felt that he wanted to go out and bay the moon as soon as the word “Garfield” cropped up in the conversation. The Inspector coughed slightly and looked up at the sky. That was the trouble with Colonel Ratcliffe, he would ask silly questions. He was a nice enough man taken all round, if a bit on the young side, but he’d be very much nicer if he’d only recognise once and for all that he was new to this game, and the Inspector was not. But did he recognise it? He did not. From the way he spoke sometimes, you might think that it was he who was the old hand, with a neatly solved murder mystery tucked away behind him, and the Inspector the novice. And he would ask such silly questions. “Why, sir?” repeated the Inspector in tones of surprise. Inspector Cottingham had always regarded his measuring of the furniture as a primary stroke of immense and subtle cunning. True, it had led to nothing just as matters turned out, but it might have produced all sorts of exciting results; and anyhow, it smacked of the professional touch in a most gratifying way, and now here was this absurd Chief Constable wanting to know why.