as to make four. And it can’t be done, Battle, it simply can’t be done.”
“There’s difficulties that way,” agreed the detective.
“But you’re just the man I wanted to see. Battle, I want to go away. Can it be done?”
True to his creed, Superintendent Battle showed neither emotion nor surprise. His reply was easy and matter of fact.
“That depends, sir, as to where you want to go.”
“I’ll tell you exactly, Battle. I’ll lay my cards upon the table. I want to go to Dinard, to the Château of Madame la Comtesse de Breteuil. Can it be done?”
“When do you want to go, Mr. Cade?”
“Say to-morrow after the inquest. I could be back here by Sunday evening.”
“I see,” said the superintendent, with peculiar solidity.
“Well, what about it?”
“I’ve no objection, provided you go where you say you’re going, and come straight back here.”
“You’re a man in a thousand, Battle. Either you have taken an extraordinary fancy to me or else you’re extraordinarily deep. Which is it?”
Superintendent Battle smiled a little, but did not answer.
“Well, well,” said Anthony, "I expect you’ll take your precautions. Discreet minions of the law will follow my suspicious footsteps. So be it. But I do wish I knew what it was all about.”
“I don’t get you, Mr. Cade.”
“The Memoirs—what all the fuss is about. Were they only Memoirs? Or have you got something up your sleeve?”
Battle smiled again.
“Take it like this. I’m doing you a favour because you’ve made a favourable impression on me, Mr. Cade. I’d like you to work in with me over this case. The amateur and the professional, they go well together. The one has the intimacy, so to speak, and the other the experience.”
“Well,” said Anthony slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.”
“Any ideas about the case at all, Mr. Cade?”
“Plenty of them,” said Anthony. “But they’re mostly questions.”
“As, for instance?”
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