“Poor young men have gone bust now and then before this,” said the inspector. “But you’re quite right, all the same, Frant. This boy has come into money, or the near prospect of it, just lately. I’ll tell you what makes me sure: the expression of the girl he was dancing with.”

“I don’t see that,” Frant objected. “Of course she’d be pleased to be dancing with a boy she was fond of.”

“But she wasn’t just ‘pleased’,” persisted Mallett. “She was completely happy—without a care in the world. You don’t so often see people like that, and there was no mistaking it. Now just consider the—what d’you call it—the psychology of it. Here’s a girl who’s been in love with a young man for some time—you’ll remember what Mr. Browne said—who hasn’t a penny to bless himself with; obviously no prospect of getting married for years and years. Would she look like that just because she was spending one evening with him, which anyway she knew he couldn’t possibly afford?”

“Lots of girls are never so happy as when they’re making a chap spend a month’s wages in an evening,” remarked Frant sagely.

“Not that sort of girl,” said the inspector emphatically.

When people say “Not that sort of girl”, particularly when they say it about a girl you have not yourself seen, there is obviously nothing to be said, and the sergeant accordingly remained silent.

“Why not simply interview him and ask him where his money comes from?” he said finally.

Mallett shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’ve frightened this fellow pretty badly already, without meaning to. If he’s got anything to conceal, he’ll have done it by now, and have his story pat and ready. If there’s nothing fishy about it after all, there’s no harm done.”

“Then why not ask the girl, or her father, and see what they know about him?”

“That’s all very well, Frant, but you can’t just stroll into a man’s house, and say: ‘I’m a police officer, and I want to know how much money your daughter’s fiancé has got and how he got it’—can you? At least, I shouldn’t care to do it, especially with a retired general. All the same, I should very much like to have the chance of a talk with him.”

“And his daughter,” added Frant, but under his breath.

The inspector drummed on the table for a moment, tugging at his moustache with his disengaged hand.

“Still,” he murmured, “it might be managed. It’s a long shot, but it might come off. I think I’ll have a talk on the phone with the Sussex police.”

“Now, or after lunch?” asked Frant, who knew his superior’s weakness.