"It’s an Austin, so he’d be able to get the engine going with the self-starter, probably, even on a night like this. He wouldn’t need to crank up the car. There would be no exertion on his part."
The Inspector had been examining the ground.
"It’s frozen fairly hard," he reported. "There’s no hope of tracing the car’s track on a night like this, even if one could have done that through all the marks of the town traffic. That’s a blank end."
"You may as well take the number, Inspector. It’s just possible that some constable may have noticed it, though the chances are about a thousand to one against that, on a night of this sort."
Flamborough went round to the rear number-plate and jotted down the figures in his pocket-book, repeating them aloud as he did so:
"GX. 6061."
He came round the car again and subjected the whole interior to a minute scrutiny under the light of his flashlamp.
"Here’s a girl’s handkerchief lying on the floor," he said, as he peered down at the place beside the driver. Then, holding it in the light from the side-lamp, he turned it over and reported.
"It’s got ‘Y.S.’ embroidered in one corner. That would be for Yvonne Silverdale, I suppose. It doesn’t take us much further. Except that it proves this was the car she went off in with young Hassendean, and I expect we could have got better proof of that elsewhere."
"Nothing else you can find?" Sir Clinton inquired.
"No, sir."
Before the Chief Constable could say anything further, two figures loomed up through the fog and a startled exclamation in a female voice reached the group around the car. Sir Clinton caught Dr. Ringwood’s arm and whispered hurriedly in his ear:
"The maids coming back to the house. Spin them a yarn that young Hassendean’s met with an accident and been brought home. Tell them who you are. We don’t want to have them in hysterics."
Dr. Ringwood moved towards the dim figures in the fog.
"I’m Dr. Ringwood," he explained. "I suppose you’re the maids, aren’t you? You must go in very quietly. Young Mr. Hassendean’s had a bad accident and mustn’t be disturbed. He’s in the room to the right as you go in at the door, so don’t make a fuss in the house. You’d better get off to bed."
There was a sound of rapid whispering and then one of the maids enquired:
"Was it a motor accident, sir?"
Dr. Ringwood, anxious not to commit himself to details, made a gesture to the window behind him.
"Don’t make a row, please. Mr. Hassendean mustn’t be disturbed in any way. Get off to bed as soon as you can, and keep quiet. By the way, when do you expect the rest of the family home?"
"They’ve gone out to play bridge, sir," answered the maid who had spoken before. "Usually they get home about half-past eleven."
"Good. I shall have to wait for them."
The bolder of the two maids had advanced as he was speaking, and now she stared suspiciously at him in the dim light from the car lamps.
"Excuse me, sir," she ventured. "How do I know that it’s all right?"
"You mean I might be a burglar, I suppose?" Dr. Ringwood answered patiently. "Well, here’s Inspector Flamborough. He’s surely protection enough for you."
The maid examined Flamborough with relief.
"Oh, that’s all right, sir. I saw Inspector Flamborough once at the police sports. That’s him, right enough. I’m sorry to have been a bit suspicious, sir——"
"Quite right," Dr. Ringwood reassured her. "Now, just get off to bed, will you. We’ve got the patient to think about."
"Is it a bad accident, sir?"
"Very serious, perhaps. Talking won’t mend it, anyhow."
Dr. Ringwood’s temper was becoming slightly frayed by the maid’s persistence. However, she took the hint and retired with her companion into the house. Inspector Flamborough made a gesture which arrested them at the door.
"By the way, when did young Mr. Hassendean leave the house to-night?" he demanded.
"I couldn’t say, sir. We left ourselves at seven o’clock. Mr. Hassendean and Miss Hassendean were just going out then—they were dining out. And Mr. Ronald was dressing, I think. He was going out to dinner, too."
Flamborough dismissed them, and they vanished into the hall. Sir Clinton gave them a reasonable time to get out of the way before making any further move. The Inspector occupied himself with writing a note in his pocket-book.
"I think we may as well go into the house again," the Chief Constable suggested. "Just fasten that front door after us, Inspector, if you please. We may as well have some warning when the family turns up."
He led the way up the steps, entered the hall, and, after opening one or two doors at random, selected the drawing-room of the house, in which a banked-up fire was burning.
"We may as well wait here. It’s to be hoped they won’t be long, now. Sit down, doctor."
Then, noticing the expression on Dr. Ringwood’s face, he continued:
