CHAPTER 131
After Macdonald had left Templedean Place, Herbert Standish gave up any attempt to work and went out into the gardens, prowling about like a lost spirit. He had been uneasy enough in the presence of the Chief Inspector. The deliberate questioning and relentless summing up had shattered all that remained of Standish’s habitual complacency. He had been accustomed to despise what he called “an unstable nervous system,” but now his own body was clammy with chilly sweat, his hands unsteady, his mind no longer under the control of his will.
Standish was no weakling. Finding that he could no longer concentrate on reading or writing, he sought refuge in the mechanical work of typing an essay he had written. He was a good typist, quick, rhythmical and accurate, and he found that the e
