‘Well, this handkerchief has a good deal to do with you,’ said Hemingway sternly. ‘You deliberately tried to conceal it, and that doesn’t look any too good, let me tell you!’

‘But I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t do it! It isn’t Mr Herriard’s blood: it’s my own!’

‘That’ll be for others to find out,’ said Hemingway, and dismissed him.

The Sergeant drew a breath. ‘Do you believe him, sir?’

‘It’s about what I thought had happened when you first showed me the handkerchief,’ admitted Hemingway.

‘But that story he put up, about being afraid you’d find it!’

‘Might easily be true.’

The Sergeant looked disappointed. ‘You made a point when you asked him if he’d mentioned his nose-bleed to anyone.’

‘I didn’t really, but I wanted to see what he’d do if I rattled him. Nose-bleeding’s a silly sort of kid’s complaint: you don’t go round bucking about it.’

‘Then you do believe him!’

‘I’ve got what wouldn’t do you any harm, my lad: an open mind! This is a job for the scientists. Until they tell me that this blood belongs to old Herriard’s group, there’s nothing I can do about it. You’d better come along, and get some lunch now.’

The Sergeant, feeling rather dissatisfied, followed him out into the hall, where he was pounced on by Mottisfont, who said in a complaining tone that he had been waiting to speak to him for a long time.

‘Yes, sir, what is it?’ asked Hemingway, eyeing him dispassionately.

‘I don’t know how much longer you propose to take over your investigation,’ Mottisfont said sarcastically, ‘but I must point out to you that my time is not my own. I’m a very busy man. I came down here merely to spend Christmas, not to remain indefinitely. I have an important business engagement in town tomorrow, and with all due deference to you I propose to leave in the morning.’

‘I’ve no objection, sir,’ said Hemingway calmly. ‘You’re not being kept here.’

‘I understood that no one was allowed to leave the house!’

‘Did you, sir? Not from me, I’m sure. Of course, I shall want your address, but I shouldn’t dream of keeping you here.’

Mottisfont looked as though the wind had been taken out of his sails, and was beginning to grumble that he had been misled, when Paula came down the stairs, and interrupted him.

‘I suppose you have heard the latest news?’ she said. She was not laughing now; she looked hard and angry, and it was evident that she meant to vent her displeasure on as many people as possible.

‘What news?’ said Mottisfont.

‘Oh, so you haven’t! Well, you may be interested to hear that Stephen is not the heir, and that I do not get my legacy!’

Mottisfont stared at her. ‘Do you mean that a later will has been discovered?’

‘Oh no! Nothing like that! Merely that this one is invalid!’ said Paula savagely.

‘Indeed! I am very sorry to hear it, but I can hardly suppose that it concerns me,’ said Mottisfont.