But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary⁠—a steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very troubled expression.

“I know your immense experience, sir,” said he. “This is quite unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I not?”

“Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it. That’s the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?”

“What have you against him?”