There was a subtle but
unmistakable change in his appearance as he stood with his hands in
his pockets, and a frown on his forehead, whistling softly to
himself, his eyes fixed upon the door through which his wife had
vanished. He swung round at last towards the telephone.
"Stand by for a moment, Jimmy, will you?" he directed.
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Sir Henry took up the receiver. He dropped his voice a little,
although it was none the less distinct.
"Number one--police-station, please.--Hullo there! The inspector
about?--That you, Inspector?--Sir Henry Cranston speaking. Could
you just step round?--Good! Tell them to show you straight into
the library. You might just drop a hint to Mills about the lights,
eh? Thank you."
He laid down the receiver and turned towards the fisherman.
"Well, Jimmy," he enquired, "all serene down in the village, eh?"
"So far as I've seen or heard, sir, there ain't been a word spoke
as shouldn't be."
"A lazy lot they are," Sir Henry observed.
"They don't look far beyond the end of their noses."
"Maybe it's as well for us, sir, as they don't," was the cautious
reply.
Sir Henry strolled to the further end of the room.
"Perhaps you are right, Jimmy," he admitted.
"That fellow Ben Oates seems to be the only one with
ideas."
"He don't keep sober long enough to give us any trouble," Dumble
declared.
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