“Not this time,” replied the Inspector with paternal regret. “But if he comes interfering with me any more in the execution of my duties and trying to teach me my own job—well, I’m not saying what mayn’t happen.” “Quite right,” agreed Guy gravely. “Perfectly correct. Have another drink, won’t you?” The Inspector graciously accepted this aid to the readjustment of ruffled plumes. Constable Graves, returning a trifle heated, a few moments later, also consented to be soothed in a like manner. It would be too much to say that Constable Graves had been sulking with his superior officer; it would not be too much to say that he had been feeling a trifle resentful. This was his little murder after all; it was he who had been enclosed in the cupboard; it was his astuteness which had bidden him lie low while the body was being removed, in order to collect invaluable evidence—yet here was the Inspector taking the whole thing into his own hands, bellowing at him as if he had been the actual criminal, and not allowing him to put a word in edgeways! Constable Graves felt he had legitimate cause for resentment. He had been able to work some of it off upon Mr. Foster and now felt a little better. A contemplation of the generous allowance of whisky which Guy poured into his glass made him feel better still. The police were not the only persons to view Mr. Foster’s retirement with complacency. Mr. Doyle was also glad to see him go. The enlistment of Mr. Foster’s aid had seemed a mixed blessing to Mr. Doyle; certainly his testimony was useful in one way, in another it was embarrassing. While feeling all proper respect for his fiancée’s nimble exploitation of the situation, he did agree with Guy that the introduction of a Crown Prince was overdoing things a little. Besides, this man Foster was such a consummate ass that he might make trouble out of sheer well-meaning enthusiasm. Another matter was also in the forefront of Mr. Doyle’s mind. So far he had only heard the Inspector’s version of the constable’s story, and that astute man’s sojourn in the cupboard had been glossed over a little hurriedly; Inspector Cottingham seemed to feel that his subordinate’s ignominy in this connection was reflected to some degree upon himself. Mr. Doyle was now anxious to put a few questions on this subject to the principal actor. Permission to do so having been craved of the Inspector with tactful humility and graciously given, Doyle drew the constable a little aside. Guy, seeing what was in the wind, at once engaged the Inspector in earnest conversation. Doyle found himself with more or less of a free hand. “While you were in the cupboard, constable,” he began, “I suppose you heard these people moving about when they took away the body, didn’t you?”