“Well, you’ve given us something to think about,” answered the inspector, “and we are much obliged to you. Now, Mr. James, to make everything regular, I’ll ask you to wait here for a few moments while Sergeant Frant puts your story into writing, and then you can go back to nurse your cold at Easington. One other thing you can do for us,” he added. “Do you mind if we take your photograph before you go? It may be valuable for our purposes.”

“Not in the least,” Mr. James assured him.

“See that that is done,” he said to Frant. “I have an important appointment outside now. When you have taken this gentleman’s statement, telephone to the police station at Easington and verify what he has told us about himself. Good day, Mr. James.”

He departed to his lunch, leaving the sergeant, whose meal-times were not considered of importance, gloomily manipulating a fountain-pen.

16
FANSHAWE SPEAKS

Friday, November 20th

It was afternoon. The Easington police had vouched for the bona fides of Colin James, and he had returned to his corn and seeds. Another visitor was now awaited, and for him the stage was set with more than ordinary care. A comfortable low chair was provided for him, for the inspector had found by experience that men talk with greater fluency when they are at ease, and at the same time the questioner has an advantage if he is sitting above the person he is interrogating. “If they put witnesses down in the well of the court instead of sticking them up in a box level with the judge, there’d be much less perjury,” he used to say. This chair was arranged so that it faced the light, and at the same time an open box of good cigarettes was placed within easy reach on the corner of the inspector’s desk. At the other end of the room a shorthand writer was in unobtrusive attendance.

When all was settled to Mallett’s satisfaction there was still some time to wait. An uneasy air of expectancy descended on the room. Frant, whose nerves were less under control than his superior’s, found the silence hard to bear.

“What do you think he’s coming here to tell us?” he said.

“I haven’t the least idea,” was the answer. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it turns out to be something completely unimportant after all. There are so many loose ends in this case that I’m beginning to wonder if we are ever going to find a thread that will lead us anywhere.” He was silent for a moment, and then, as if feeling that the sergeant was finding the tension oppressive, began on another subject.

“What did you make of James’s story?” he asked.

“I think we’ve learned something very valuable from it,” Frant answered. “That name, description, passport—it can’t be all coincidence.”