"Think again," Sir Clinton advised him drily. "Do you really suppose that Silverdale—who seems in love with the girl—would have picked her out for business of that sort? It’s incredible, Inspector."
The first flush of enthusiasm at his discovery passed from Flamborough’s thoughts at the tone of the Chief Constable’s voice.
"I suppose you’re right, sir," he had to admit. "But there’s another girl who’d have enjoyed the job—and that’s the Hailsham girl. She’d have given a good deal just for the pleasure of seeing those two humiliated. She’d have gloated over the chance of giving that particular evidence in court and squaring accounts with young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale. It would have been all jam to her, sir. You can’t deny that."
Sir Clinton conceded the point without ado.
"I won’t deny it," he said curtly. "But you needn’t let your mind run exclusively on the female population of Westerhaven in a matter of this sort. A man would be a much more convenient witness for Silverdale to take with him. Why leave Silverdale’s male friends out of account?"
"If you’re thinking of Markfield, sir, we’ll not get much out of him, I’m afraid," Flamborough pronounced. "So far, except when he couldn’t help it, he’s done his level best to refuse any information about Silverdale and his doings—if he hasn’t actually served out misleading statements to us. I don’t much care for Dr. Markfield’s way of going about things."
Sir Clinton crossed the room and took down his hat from its peg.
"Well, let’s sample his methods once more, Inspector. We’ll go round now to the Croft-Thornton and look into the question of the jacket. You can bear the burden of the interview, if you like; but I should prefer to hear what goes on. And you might press Silverdale a little more sharply about his doings on the night of the bungalow affair. We may as well give him a chance of second thoughts, though really I don’t expect anything from him at this stage."
Sir Clinton and the Inspector found Markfield at work in his laboratory when they reached the Croft-Thornton Institute. Flamborough wasted no time in preliminaries, but plunged at once into the business which had brought him there.
"What do you make of that, Dr. Markfield?" he demanded, producing the shred of cloth with the button attached and showing them to the chemist.
Markfield examined the object carefully, but his face showed only a certain bewilderment when he looked up at the Inspector again.
"It seems to be a button and a bit of cloth with a picric acid stain on it," he pointed out with a tinge of irony. "Do you want me to make an expert examination of it? If so, you’d better tell me some more about it, so that I’ll know what you want with it."
Flamborough stared at him for a moment or two, as though trying to read something in his expression, but Markfield seemed in no way put out.
"I’m not a mind-reader, Inspector," he pointed out. "You’ll need to explain clearly what you expect me to do; and I’ll have to be told whether I can cut bits out of your specimen for chemical analysis."
Flamborough saw that his attempt to draw Markfield was not going to be so easy as he had hoped.
"Have a good look at the thing first of all," he suggested. "Can you remember anything like it?"
Markfield stolidly examined the object once more.
"It’s a button and a piece of cloth," he said at last. "Of course I’ve seen buttons before, and bits of cloth are not uncommon. I should think that this stain is a picric acid one, but that’s a matter for further examination before I could say anything definite. Is that what you wanted?"
Flamborough kept his temper with difficulty.
"What I want to know, Dr. Markfield, is whether you have recently seen anything that you could associate with that thing—any garment from which it might have been torn, or anything of that sort."
Markfield’s eyes narrowed and he glanced with obvious unfriendliness at the Inspector.
"It’s a coat-button, by the look of it. I’m no specialist in buttons, I admit. It might have come off any lounge suit, so far as I can see."
"I’d advise you not to fence with us too long, Dr. Markfield," Flamborough suggested. "Look at the cloth. Does that remind you of anything that’s familiar to you?"
Markfield’s face betrayed his obvious annoyance.
"I suppose you’ve identified it already for yourselves. Why come to me? Presumably you mean that it’s a bit torn off Dr. Silverdale’s laboratory coat. Well, I can’t swear to that. It may be, for all I know. Why not compare it with the coat, and if the coat’s torn, you’ve got your evidence, whatever it may be. I don’t see why you drag me into the thing at all."
Flamborough’s voice grew hard as he answered:
