The Return Of Bulldog Drummond by Sapper Page B

killed Marton.”
    Finally the sergeant was called, who gave evidence of his call at Merridale Hall, and the presence there of Comtessa Bartelozzi, whom the Coroner decided it was not necessary to trouble. And so the inquest ended with the verdict that had been obvious from the commencement: “Wilful murder by John Morris, subsequently believed drowned in Grimstone Mire.” They further added a rider to the effect that no pains should be spared to discover the weapon with which the crime was committed.
    “I think we may congratulate ourselves on the way that went off,” said Hardcastle to Drummond, as the jury began to disperse. “It was most masterly the way you avoided any direct reference to the ghost, and I’m very much obliged to you.”
    “Don’t mention it,” said Drummond affably. “It is a pleasure to assist you in any way. But you’ll still have to watch it. We may have finished with the inquest, but we’ve not got rid of the reporters yet. Here’s one of the blighters bearing down on us now.”
    But it was not at the newspaper man that Hardcastle was looking, and following the direction of his glance, Drummond saw Jerningham, at the other side of the hall, chatting to Mr Peters.
    “May I trouble you for a few moments, gentlemen?” The reporter, notebook in hand, paused hopefully.
    “You may not,” laughed Drummond. “Nothing on this earth is going to keep me one minute longer from the consumption of ale. My throat is like a lime-kiln. So long, Mr Hardcastle: doubtless we shall meet again in less stirring times. Are you coming, Ted? Peter is in the bus already.”
    “A stroke of luck, Hugh,” said Jerningham as they left. “You remember my telling you about Dick Newall, whom I’ve often played golf with. Well, he is in the firm. He’s the sort of opposite number to young Marton. There’s an old Newall, and Dick is his nephew.”
    “What sort of a bloke is he, Ted?”
    “Quite a cheery lad, and plays no bad game.”
    “Good! But we’ll have to get hold of him on the quiet. Hardcastle had an eye like a gimlet on you when you were talking to Peters.”
    “And he had an eye like a gimlet on you when you were giving evidence, old son,” said Darrell.
    “I know he had, Peter. He’s not very good at disguising his expression. I thought I was pretty hot stuff over the Puck-like elfin streak, didn’t you?”
    “I damned near gave it away by laughing,” said Jerningham. “And as for your thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, it’s seventh, you ass.”
    “To the great artist what is a trifle of that sort?” remarked Drummond. “It is the general atmosphere that counts. And incidentally,” he continued more seriously, “there’s nothing much wrong with the general atmosphere the other side have managed to produce, as far as they’re concerned. What a stroke of luck for them that Morris hadn’t got to be reckoned with! But, for all that, the more you look into it, the more masterly do you find the way they’ve extricated themselves from a very nasty position.”
    “What’s going to happen if they do find the chopper?” said Darrell.
    “Find your grandmother, Peter! Morris was not the only thing that went into Grimstone Mire that night. They aren’t the type of bunch who would keep a weapon covered with fingerprints that are not Morris’. No: I should say that delightful creature Penton bunged the chopper into the bog immediately the thing was done, and I’m wondering how it’s going to strike the Inspector when he fails to find it.”
    “Bring the cocktails, Jennings,” shouted Jerningham, as they got out of the car.
    “Because, if he only realises it, it knocks the whole verdict endways. If the original scheme had gone through, and Morris had been caught later, the point didn’t arise: naturally he would have thrown it away where it could never be found. And little Willie isn’t going to find it.”
    “It would take more than a trifle of that sort to worry him,” said