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diff --git a/75407-0.txt b/75407-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ae7ead --- /dev/null +++ b/75407-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9439 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75407 *** + + +Tragedy at Ravensthorpe + +by J. J. Connington + +Published February, 1928 by Grosset & Dunlap (New York) +Copyright, 1927, 1928, by Little, Brown, and Company + + + +CONTENTS + + I. The Fairy Houses + II. Mr. Polegate’s Sense of Humour + III. The Theft at the Masked Ball + IV. The Chase in the Woods + V. Sir Clinton in the Museum + VI. Mr. Foss’s Explanation + VII. What Was in the Lake + VIII. The Murder in the Museum + IX. The Muramasa Sword + X. The Shot in the Clearing + XI. Underground Ravensthorpe + XII. Chuchundra’s Body + XIII. The Otophone + XIV. The Second Chase in the Woods + XV. Sir Clinton’s Solution + + + +NOTE + +The characters, places, and events described in this book are entirely +imaginary and have no connection, either direct or indirect, with any +real persons, places, or events. + + + +CHAPTER I + +The Fairy Houses + +“Got fixed up in your new house yet, Sir Clinton?” asked Cecil +Chacewater, as they sauntered together up one of the paths in the +Ravensthorpe grounds. “It must be a bit of a change from South +Africa—settling down in this backwater.” + +Sir Clinton Driffield, the new Chief Constable of the county, nodded +affirmatively in reply to the question. + +“One manages to be fairly comfortable; and it’s certainly been less +trouble to fit up than it would have been if I’d taken a bigger place. +Not that I don’t envy you people at Ravensthorpe,” he added, glancing +round at the long front of the house behind him. “You’ve plenty of +elbow-room in that castle of yours.” + +Cecil made no reply; and they paced on for a minute or more before Sir +Clinton again spoke. + +“It’s a curious thing, Cecil, that although I knew your father so +well, I never happened to come down here to Ravensthorpe. He often +asked me to stay; and I wanted to see his collection; but somehow we +never seemed able to fix on a time that suited us both. It was at the +house in Onslow Square that I always saw you, so this is all fresh +ground to me. It’s rather like the irony of fate that my first post +since I came home should be in the very district I couldn’t find time +to visit when your father was alive.” + +Cecil Chacewater agreed with a gesture. + +“I was very glad when I saw you’d been appointed. I wondered if you’d +know me again after all that time; but I thought we’d better bring +ourselves to your notice in case we could be of any help +here—introduce you to people, and all that sort of thing, you know.” + +“I hardly recognized you when you turned up the other day,” Sir +Clinton admitted frankly. “You were a kiddie when I went off to take +that police post in South Africa; and somehow or other I never seem to +have run across you on any of my trips home on leave. It must have +been ten years since I’d seen you.” + +“I don’t wonder you didn’t place me at once. Ten years makes a lot of +difference at my advanced age. But you don’t look a bit changed. I +recognized you straight off, as soon as I saw you.” + +“What age are you now?” asked Sir Clinton. + +“About twenty-three,” Cecil replied. “Maurice is twenty-five, and +Joan’s just on the edge of twenty-one.” + +“I suppose she must be,” Sir Clinton confirmed. + +A thought seemed to cross his mind. + +“By the way, this masked ball, I take it, is for Joan’s +coming-of-age?” + +“You got an invitation? Right! I’ve nothing to do with that part of +the business.” Then, answering Sir Clinton’s inquiry: “Yes, that’s so. +She wanted a spree of some sort; and she generally gets what she +wants, you know. You’ll hardly know _her_ when you see her. She’s shot +up out of all recognition from the kid you knew before you went away.” + +“She used to be pretty as a school-girl.” + +“Oh, she hasn’t fallen off in that direction. You must come to this +show of hers. She’ll be awfully pleased if you do. She looks on you as +a kind of unofficial uncle, you know.” + +Sir Clinton’s expression showed that he appreciated the indirect +compliment. + +“I’m highly flattered. She’s the only one of you who took the trouble +to write to me from time to time when I was out yonder. All my +Ravensthorpe news came through her.” + +Cecil was rather discomfited by this reminder. He changed the subject +abruptly. + +“I suppose you’ll come as Sherlock Holmes? Joan’s laid down that every +one must act up to their costume, whatever it is; and Sherlock +wouldn’t give you much trouble after all your detective experience. +You’d only have to snoop round and pick up clues and make people +uncomfortable with deductions.” + +Sir Clinton seemed amused by the idea. + +“A pretty programme! Something like this, I suppose?” he demanded, and +gave a faintly caricatured imitation of the Holmes mannerisms. + +“By Jove, you know, that’s awfully good!” Cecil commented, rather +taken aback by the complete change in Sir Clinton’s voice and gait. +“You ought to do it. You’d get first prize easily.” + +Sir Clinton shook his head as he resumed his natural guise. + +“The mask wouldn’t cover my moustache; and I draw the line at shaving +that off, even in a good cause. Besides, a Chief Constable can’t go +running about disguised as Sherlock Holmes. Rather bad taste, dragging +one’s trade into one’s amusements. No, I’ll come as something quite +unostentatious: a pillar-box or an Invisible Man, or a spook, +probably.” + +“I forgot,” Cecil hastened to say, apologetically, “I shouldn’t have +asked you about your costume. Joan’s very strong on some fancy +regulation she’s made that no one is to know beforehand what anyone +else is wearing. She wants the prize awarding to be absolutely +unbiased. So you’d better not tell me what you’re going to do.” + +Sir Clinton glanced at him with a faint twinkle in his eye. + +“That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for the last minute or two,” he +said, dryly. + +“What do you mean?” Cecil asked, looking puzzled. “You haven’t told me +anything.” + +“Exactly.” + +Cecil was forced to smile. + +“No harm done,” he admitted. “You gave nothing away.” + +“It’s a very useful habit in my line of business.” + +But Sir Clinton’s interest in the approaching masked ball was +apparently not yet exhausted. + +“Large crowd coming?” he asked. + +“Fairish, I believe. Most of the neighbours, I suppose. We’re putting +up a few people for the night, of course; and there are three or four +visitors on the premises already. It should be quite a decent show. I +can’t give you even rough numbers, for Joan’s taken the invitation +side of the thing entirely into her own hands—most mysterious about +it, too. Hush! Hush! Very Secret! and all that kind of thing. She +won’t even let us see her lists for fear of making it too easy to +recognize people; so she’s had to arrange the catering side of the +thing on her own as well.” + +“She always was an independent kind of person,” Sir Clinton +volunteered. + +Cecil took no notice of the interjection. + +“If you ask me,” he went on, “I think she’s a bit besotted with this +incognito notion. She doesn’t realize that half the gang can be +spotted at once by their walk, and the other half will give themselves +away as soon as they get animated and begin to jabber freely. But it’s +her show, you know, so it’s no use any one else butting in with +criticisms and spoiling her fun before it begins.” + +Sir Clinton nodded his assent; but for a moment or two he seemed to be +preoccupied with some line of thought which Cecil’s words had started +in his mind. Suddenly, however, something caught his eye and diverted +his attention to external things. + +“What’s that weird thing over there?” he asked. As he spoke, he +pointed to an object a little way off the path on which they were +standing. It was a tiny building about a yard in height and a couple +of yards or more in length. At the first glance it seemed like a +bungalow reduced to the scale of a large doll’s house; but closer +inspection showed that it was windowless, though ventilation of a sort +appeared to have been provided. A miniature door closed the entrance, +through which a full-grown man could gain admittance only by lying +flat on the ground and wriggling with some difficulty through the +narrow opening provided. + +“That?” Cecil answered carelessly. “Oh, that’s one of the Fairy +Houses, you know. They’re a sort of local curiosity. No matter where +you are, you’ll find one of them within a couple of hundred yards of +you, anywhere in the grounds.” + +“Only in the grounds? Aren’t there any outside the estate?” inquired +Sir Clinton. “At the first glance I took it for some sort of +archæological affair.” + +“They’re old enough, I dare say,” Cecil admitted, indifferently. “A +century, or a century and a half, or perhaps even more. They’re purely +a Ravensthorpe product. I’ve never seen one of them outside the +boundary.” + +Sir Clinton left the path and made a closer examination of the tiny +hut; but it presented very few points of interest in itself. Out of +curiosity, he turned the handle of the door and found it moved easily. + +“You seem to keep the locks and hinges oiled,” he said, with some +surprise. + +Pushing the door open, he stooped down and glanced inside. + +“Very spic and span. You keep them in good repair, evidently.” + +“Oh, one of the gardeners has the job of looking after them,” Cecil +explained, without showing much interest. + +“I’ve never seen anything of the sort before. They might be Picts’ +dwellings, or something of that kind; but why keep them in repair? +And, of course, they’re not prehistoric at all. They’re comparatively +modern, from the way they’re put together. What are they?” + +“Ask me another,” said Cecil, who seemed bored by the subject. +“They’re an ancestral legacy, or an heirloom, or a tenant’s +improvement, or whatever you like to call it. Clause in the will each +time, to provide for them being kept in good repair, and so forth.” + +Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears when he heard of this +provision, though his tone showed only languid interest when he put +his next inquiry. + +“Anything at the back of it all? It seems a rum sort of business.” + +“The country-people round about here will supply you with all the +information you can believe about it—and a lot you’re not likely to +swallow, too. By their way of it, Lavington Knoll up there”—he pointed +vaguely to indicate its position—“was the last of the fairy +strongholds hereabouts; and when most of the fairies went away, a few +stayed behind. But these didn’t care much for the old Knoll after +that. Reminded them of past glories and cheery company too much, I +suppose; and so they made a sort of treaty with an ancestor of ours. +He was to provide houses for them, and they were to look after the +general prosperity side of Ravensthorpe.” + +Sir Clinton seemed amused by Cecil’s somewhat scornful summary. + +“A case of ‘Farewell rewards and fairies,’ it seems, Cecil.” + +Then, half to himself, he hummed a few lines of Corbet’s song: + + Witness those rings and roundelayes + Of theirs, which yet remaine; + Were footed in queene Maries dayes + On many a grassy playne. + But since of late Elizabeth . . . + +“Do you go as far back as Elizabeth, here at Ravensthorpe, by any +chance, Cecil?” + +“So far as the grounds go, yes. The house was partly destroyed in +Cromwell’s time; and some new bits were built on in place of the old +stuff. But there’s a lot of the old part left yet, in quite good +repair.” + +Sir Clinton still seemed interested in the compact with the Fairies. + +“Was there any penalty clause in the contract about these Houses? +There’s usually some drawback to these affairs—like the Luck of +Edenhall, for instance.” + +“There used to be some legend or other that unless the Fairies found +their houses always in good order, the Family Curse would come home to +roost, one-time. No one believes in that sort of stuff nowadays; but +it’s kept alive by this clause that’s put into every will—a kind of a +family custom, you know, that no one cares to be the first to break. +If you call it a damned old wives’ tale, I shan’t blame you.” + +Sir Clinton could not be sure whether Cecil’s indifference in the +matter was natural or assumed; but in any case he thought it tactful +to pursue the subject no further. Closing the door of the Fairy House +again, he made his way back to the path where his companion was +waiting for him. + +As the Chief Constable rejoined him, Cecil looked round the horizon +with feeble interest. + +“Not much else to show you, I’m afraid,” he said. Then, with an +after-thought: “Care to see rather a good view? The best one +hereabouts is just up above us—through the wood here—if you think it +worth the trouble of the climb. It’s not very far. We’ve plenty of +time before lunch.” + +Sir Clinton acquiesced, and they began to mount a further slope in the +path which now led them up through a sparse pine-wood. + +“There seems to be a good sound foundation to this path,” the Chief +Constable commented, as they walked on. + +“There used to be a carriage-drive, at one time, leading up to the +top. I suppose the old birds used to drive up here and sit out having +tea and admiring the view on fine days. But it’s been neglected for +long enough. Hardly any one goes up to the top now, except once in a +blue moon or else by accident.” + +Sir Clinton gave a nod of acquiescence. + +“Any one can see the path’s hardly ever used.” + +“Just beyond this brow,” Cecil explained as they moved on, “there’s an +old quarry cut in the further side of the hill. It’s a very old place, +rather picturesque nowadays. Most of the stone for Ravensthorpe came +from it in the old days, and during the rebuilding. After that, the +quarry dropped out of use gradually; and finally some one had the +notion of letting water in at the foot of it and having a sort of +model lake there, with the cliff of the quarry at one end of it. We’re +making for the top of the cliff by going this way; and when you get +out of the wood into the open, you’ll find rather a good outlook over +the country.” + +A short walk took them through the rest of the pine-wood. On the +further side they came into a belt of open ground beyond which, on a +slight eminence, a little spinney blocked part of the view. + +“That’s where we’re making for,” Cecil explained. “The best view-point +is on the other side of these trees. The old birds, a century back, +chose it carefully and did some laying out at the top; so I suppose +they must have been keen on the place.” + +As they approached the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed a fence running +down from each side of it. Cecil followed the direction of the Chief +Constable’s glance. + +“That’s barbed wire,” he pointed out. “The spinney’s at the top of the +quarry; but there’s a bad drop down towards the hollow on either +side—a dangerous bit, practically precipitous—and so the wire was put +up to prevent any one wandering near the edge and tripping over.” + +Cutting through the fringe of trees, they emerged at the top of the +cliff. Here the ground had been levelled and paved. Along the +precipice, a marble balustrade had been erected as a safeguard. +Further back, a curved tier of marble seats faced the view; and here +and there in the line rose pedestals carrying life-sized marble +statues which faced out towards the gulf. + +“This is really very elaborate,” Sir Clinton commented. “Evidently +your ancestors liked the view, if they took so much trouble to put up +this affair.” + +He moved across the paved space, leaned on the balustrade, and looked +down into the depths. + +“I don’t wonder you fenced that in with barbed wire on each side,” he +said. “It’s a nasty drop down there—well over a fifty-foot fall at +least.” + +“It’s nearer a hundred, really,” Cecil corrected him. “The height’s a +bit deceptive from here. And a fall into that pool would be no joy, I +can tell you! It’s full of sharp spikes of rock jutting up from the +bottom. You’d get fairly well mauled if you happened to drop on any of +them. You can’t see them for that green stuff in the water; but +they’re all present and correct under the surface.” + +Sir Clinton looked down at the weed-grown little lakelet. The dense +green fronds gave the water an unpleasant appearance; and in some tiny +backwaters the surface was covered with a layer of scum. + +“Why don’t you get all that stuff cleared out?” he demanded. “It looks +rather beastly. Once you got rid of it you could stock the pool with +trout or perch, easily enough. I see there’s some flow of water +through it from a spring at the east end.” + +Cecil seemed to have no interest in the suggestion. + +“If you want some fishing,” he said, “we’ve got quite a decent stream +that runs through another part of the grounds. This place used to be +kept in good order; but since the war and all that, you know, the fine +edge has been rather off things hereabouts. It’s in a bad state, right +enough. Just a frog-pond.” + +“Is the water deep?” Sir Clinton inquired. + +“Oh, ten to fifteen feet in parts. Quite deep just in front of the +cave at the bottom of the cliff below here. We used to have great +times playing robbers and so forth when we were kids. There’s our old +raft at the far end. It was well tarred and I see it’s still afloat. +It was the only way of getting at the cave-mouth, you see.” + +He dismissed the subject. + +“Suppose we sit down for a while.” + +Sir Clinton followed him to one of the marble benches. Before them, +the view of the Ravensthorpe grounds stretched out, closed on the +horizon by a line of woodland. In the foreground, beyond a fence at +the end of the lake, sheep were grazing on some meadow-land. + +“One of your ancestors?” inquired Sir Clinton, nodding towards the +nearest statue. “Or merely Phœbus Apollo?” + +Cecil turned to glance at the statue. + +“I think I’d back your second choice,” he said. “If it was an +ancestor, it must have been one of the ancient Britons. It’s a bit +short of clothes for anything later than that; and even for an ancient +Briton it seems a trifle undressed. No woad, you know.” + +He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to Sir Clinton, and then +began to smoke. Sir Clinton seemed to be admiring the view in front of +him for a few minutes; but when he spoke again it was evident that +something more than scenery had been in his mind. + +“I’m not altogether easy in my mind over this masked ball of Joan’s. +Speaking as a Chief Constable responsible for the good behaviour of +the district, Cecil, it seems to me that you’re running some risks +over it. A dance is all very well. You know all your guests by +headmark and no one can get in on false pretences. But once you start +masks, it’s a different state of affairs altogether.” + +Cecil made no comment; and Sir Clinton smoked in silence for a time +before continuing: + +“It’s this craze of Joan’s for anonymity that seems to me to open the +door to all sorts of things. I take it that there’ll be no announcing +of individual guests, because of this incognito stunt of hers. But +unfortunately that means you’ll have to admit any one who chooses to +present himself as Winnie-the-Pooh or Felix the Cat or Father +Christmas. You don’t know who he is. You can’t inquire at the start. +Anybody might get in. Considering the amount of good portable stuff +there is in the collection at Ravensthorpe, do you think it’s quite +desirable to have no check whatever on your guests?” + +Cecil seemed struck by this view of the case. + +“I never thought of that,” he said. “I suppose we ought to have issued +uniform entrance-tickets, or something of that sort; but the thing +never crossed any of our minds. Somehow, it seems a bit steep to take +precautions against people when one’s inviting them to one’s house.” + +“It’s not _invited_ guests I’m thinking about,” Sir Clinton hastened +to explain more definitely. “This affair must have been talked about +all over the countryside. What’s to hinder some enterprising thief +dressing up as a tramp and presenting himself along with the rest? +He’d get in all right. And once he was inside, he might be tempted to +forget the laws of hospitality and help himself. Then, if he made +himself scarce before the unmasking at midnight, he’d get clean away +and leave no trace. See it?” + +Cecil nodded affirmatively; but to Sir Clinton’s slight surprise he +did not appear to be much perturbed on the subject. The Chief +Constable seemed to see an explanation of this attitude. + +“Perhaps, of course, you’re shutting up the collections for the +evening.” + +Cecil shook his head. + +“No. Joan insists on having them on view—all of them. It’s a state +occasion for her, you know; and she’s determined to have all the best +of Ravensthorpe for her guests. What she says goes, you know. If she +can’t get her own way by one road she takes another. It’s always +easier to give in to her at once and be done with it. She has such a +way of making one feel a beast if one refuses her anything; and yet +she never seems to get spoiled with it all.” + +Sir Clinton seemed rather taken aback by the news about the +collections. + +“Well, it’s your funeral, not mine, if anything does happen,” he +admitted. + +“Maurice’s—not mine,” Cecil corrected him with a touch of bitterness +which Sir Clinton failed to understand at the moment. + +“I’ve nothing to do with Ravensthorpe nowadays,” Cecil went on, after +a pause. “I live there, that’s all. The whole affair went to +Maurice—lock, stock, and barrel—when my father died. I’ve really no +more right in these grounds than you have. I might be kicked out any +day.” + +Sir Clinton was puzzled by Cecil’s tone. It was only natural that +Ravensthorpe should go down into the hands of Maurice, since he was +the elder brother. There could be no particular grievance in that. And +yet Cecil’s voice had betrayed something deeper than a mere mild +resentment. The asperity in his last remark had been unmistakable. + +For a few minutes Cecil remained silent, staring moodily out at the +landscape. Sir Clinton refrained from interrupting his thoughts. The +matter certainly had excited his curiosity; but until Cecil chose to +say more, there seemed to be no reason for intruding into the private +affairs of the Ravensthorpe household. Even the privileges of an old +friend did not seem to Sir Clinton a sufficient excuse for probing +into family matters. + +But the Chief Constable, without any voluntary effort, had the gift of +eliciting confidences without soliciting them. Cecil’s brooding came +to an end and he turned round to face his companion. + +“I suppose I’ve said either too much or too little already,” he began. +“I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about the affair. It’s nearly +common talk as it is, and you’re sure to hear something about it +sooner or later. You may as well get it first-hand and be done with +it.” + +Sir Clinton, having solicited no confidence, contented himself with +merely listening, without offering any vocal encouragement. + +“You knew my father well,” Cecil went on, after a short pause in which +he seemed to be arranging his ideas in some definite order. “He was +one of the best, if you like. No one would say a word against him—it’s +the last thing I’d think of doing myself, at any rate.” + +Sir Clinton nodded approvingly. + +“The bother was,” Cecil continued, “that he judged every one by +himself. He couldn’t understand that any one might not be as straight +as he always was. He never made an allowance for some kinds of human +nature, if you see what I mean. And, another thing, he had a great +notion of the duties of the head of the family. He took them pretty +seriously and he looked after a lot of people who had no claim on him, +really, except that they belonged to the clan.” + +“He was always generous, I know,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And he +always trusted people. Sometimes, perhaps, he overdid it.” + +Cecil made a gesture of agreement and continued: + +“He overdid it when he drew up his will. Maurice, of course, was bound +to be the next head of the family, once my father had gone; so my +father took it for granted that things would go on just the same. The +head of the family would run the show with an eye to the interests of +the rest of us, and all would be right on the night. That was the +theory of the business, as my father saw it; and he drafted his will +on that basis.” + +Cecil sat up suddenly and flung away his cigarette with a vehemence +which betrayed the heat of his feelings. + +“That was the theory of the business, as I said. But the practice +wasn’t quite so satisfactory. My father left every penny he had to +Maurice; he left him absolutely every asset; and, of course, +Ravensthorpe’s entailed, so Maurice got that in the normal course. +Joan, my mother, and myself, were left without a farthing to bless +ourselves with. But there was a suggestion in the will—not a legally +binding thing, but merely a sort of informal direction—that Maurice +was to look after us all and give us some sort of income each. I +suppose my father hardly thought it worth while to do more than that. +Being the sort of man he was, he would rely implicitly on Maurice +playing the game, just as he’d have played the game himself—had played +it all his life, you know.” + +Sir Clinton showed no desire to offer any comment; and in a moment or +two Cecil went on once more: + +“Last year, there was nothing to complain about. Maurice footed our +bills quite decently. He never grumbled over our expenses. Everything +seemed quite sound. It never crossed my mind to get things put on a +business footing. In fact, you know, I’d hardly have had the nerve to +suggest anything of the sort. It would have looked a bit grasping, +wouldn’t it?” + +Cecil glanced inquiringly at Sir Clinton, but the Chief Constable +seemed averse from making any comment at this stage. Cecil took his +case from his pocket and lit a fresh cigarette before continuing his +story. + +“You don’t remember Una Rainhill, I suppose?” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“She’s a sort of second cousin of ours,” Cecil explained. “Probably +you never came across her. Besides, she’d hardly be out of the nursery +when you went off to South Africa. Well, she’s grown up now—just about +a year or two younger than Joan. You’ll see her for yourself. She’s +staying with us just now for this coming-of-age of Joan’s.” + +Sir Clinton had no great difficulty in guessing, behind Cecil’s +restraint, his actual feelings about the girl. His voice gave him away +if the words did not. + +“No use making a long story of it, is there?” Cecil continued. “Both +Maurice and I wanted Una. So did a good many others. But she didn’t +want Maurice. She was quite nice about it. He’d nothing to complain of +in that way. He got no encouragement from her at all. But he wouldn’t +take ‘no’ for an answer. He was really extra keen, and I think he +overdid it instead of making the best of a bad business. And finally +he realized that it was me that he was up against. Una and I aren’t +officially engaged, or anything like that—you’ll see why in a +moment—but it’s a case of two’s company and three’s none; and Maurice +knows he’s Number Three.” + +There was more than a tinge of rancour in Cecil’s voice when he came +to this last sentence. Sir Clinton raised his eyebrows slightly. He +did not quite admire this malevolence on the part of the successful +lover against his defeated rival. Cecil apparently noticed the slight +change in the Chief Constable’s expression. + +“Wait a minute,” he said. “You haven’t heard it all yet. Before I go +on, just bear in mind that there was plenty of money for all of us in +the family. My father always took it for granted that I’d have enough +to keep me. He’d never thought of my going into business. I’ve got +some sort of turn for writing; and I think he hoped that I’d make some +kind of name as an author. And, of course, with what I supposed was an +assured income behind me, I haven’t hurried much in the way of +publishing my stuff. I could afford to let it lie—or so I thought.” + +A slight gesture of Sir Clinton showed his approval of this outlook on +authorship. It seemed to him that Cecil at his age could hardly have +much to tell the world that it didn’t know already; but he had no +intention of expressing any such discouraging views. + +“You see how it is,” Cecil continued. “As things stand, I haven’t the +ghost of a chance of earning a decent income for years and years. And +that was the weak joint that Maurice saw and went for—damn him! He +took it upon himself to tell me that I was here more or less on +sufferance. He’d been generous in the past—he actually reminded me of +that!—but he didn’t see how he was to continue to subsidize me +indefinitely. You see his game? If he couldn’t have Una himself, he’d +take care that I shouldn’t have her either. Damned dog-in-the-manger! +That’s a nice sort of brother for you! I wonder what his father would +think about him if he knew of this trick.” + +He pitched away the stub of his unfinished cigarette as though with it +he could rid himself of some of his feeling. + +“Of course there was friction—I’m putting it mildly—but there was no +open row. My mother’s not in good health and I couldn’t afford to have +her worried over my affairs. So we settled down to some sort of armed +neutrality, although the thing’s more or less evident to most people. +That’s what I meant when I said I might be kicked out any day. It’s +only a question of time, it seems to me. He still thinks that if I +were out of the way he’d have a chance with Una; and sooner or later I +expect him to give me an express-ticket into the wide world. I’m +trying to get some sort of job; but so far I haven’t succeeded in +lighting on anything that seems to offer the slightest prospects. It’s +no pleasure to stay here on sufferance, I can tell you.” + +Now that Sir Clinton had received Cecil’s unsolicited confidences, he +hardly knew what to do with them. After all, he reflected, he had +heard only one side of the story; and it was scarcely fair to judge +the case on the strength of an _ex-parte_ statement. It was not quite +the Ravensthorpe which he had expected, he admitted ruefully to +himself as he bent his efforts to bringing Cecil back to normal again. +Money and a girl: the two things that seemed to lie behind most +troubles—and even crimes, as he knew from experience. It seemed an +unkind Fate that had forced these two factors to the front in an +environment where trouble of the kind was the last that might have +been expected. One never knew what this sort of thing might lead to in +the end. + +“I’d like to have a look at your father’s collections some time or +other,” he said at last, to change the subject, when he had succeeded +in getting Cecil into a somewhat cooler frame of mind. “I saw a good +many of the things in London from time to time, as he bought them; but +there must be a lot here at Ravensthorpe that will be new to me. +Anything your father bought will be worth looking at. He had wonderful +taste.” + +Rather to his vexation, Sir Clinton found that he had only shifted the +conversation from one sore point to another. + +“If you want to see anything,” Cecil snapped, “you’d better pay your +visit as soon as you can arrange it. Maurice is going to sell the +lot.” + +Sir Clinton was completely taken aback by this news. + +“Sell the stuff? What on earth would he want to do that for? He’s got +all the money he needs, surely.” + +Cecil dissociated himself from any connection with the matter. + +“No business of mine, now. Maurice can do as he likes. Of course, I +hate the idea of all these things of my father’s being sold off when +there seems no need for it; but it’s not my affair. The Maurice boy +isn’t all we thought him; and since he’s come into Ravensthorpe, he +seems to think of very little else but money and how to get more of +it. Anything for the dibs, it appears.” + +“But surely he isn’t selling everything. He might get rid of some +minor things; but he’ll hardly break up the whole collection.” + +“Every damned thing, Sir Clinton. Why at this very moment he’s got a +Yankee agent—a man Foss—staying at Ravensthorpe and chaffering for the +star pieces of the collections: the Medusa Medallions.” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“They must be fresh acquisitions since my day. I’ve never even heard +of them.” + +“Ever see the picture of Medusa in the Uffizi Gallery? It’s attributed +to Leonardo da Vinci; but some people say it’s only a student’s copy +of the original Leonardo which has disappeared. It seems my father +came across three medallions with almost exactly the same Medusa on +one side and a figure of Perseus on the reverse. And what’s more, he +was able to get documentary proof that these things were really +Leonardo’s own work—strange as it seems. The thing’s quite admitted by +experts. So you can imagine that these Medusas are quite the star +pieces in the museum. And Maurice calmly proposes to sell them to +Kessock, the Yank millionaire; and Kessock has sent this man Foss over +here to negotiate for them.” + +“It seems rather a pity to part with them,” Sir Clinton said, +regretfully. + +“Maurice doesn’t feel it so,” Cecil retorted, rather bitterly. “He got +a friend of mine, Foxy Polegate, to make him electrotypes of them in +gold—Foxy’s rather good at that sort of thing for an amateur—and +Maurice thinks that the electrotypes will look just as well as the +originals.” + +“H’m! Cenotaphs, I suppose,” Sir Clinton commented. + +“Quite so. In Memoriam. The real things being buried in the U.S.A.” + +Cecil paused for a moment and then concluded: + +“You can imagine that none of us like this damned chandlering with +these things that my father spent so much thought over. It’s enough to +make him turn in his grave to have all his favourites scattered—and +just for the sake of Maurice’s infernal miserliness and greed for +cash.” + +Sir Clinton rose from his seat and took a last glance at the view +before him. + +“What about moving on now?” + +Cecil agreed; and they retraced their steps towards the pine-wood. As +they entered the spinney, Sir Clinton noticed another of the Fairy +Houses set back among the trees at a little distance from the path. + +“Another of those things?” + +Rather to his surprise, Cecil moved over to examine the little +edifice, and bending down opened the door and glanced inside. + +“The Fairy’s not at home at present,” he said, standing aside to let +Sir Clinton look in. + +Something in Cecil’s voice forced itself on the attention of the Chief +Constable. The words seemed to be pointless; but in the tone there was +an ill-suppressed tinge of what might almost have been malicious glee +at some unexplained jest. Sir Clinton was too wary to follow up this +track, wherever it might lead to. He did not quite like the expression +on Cecil’s face when the remark was made; and he sought for some +transition which would bring them on to a fresh subject. + +“You must have some curiosities in Ravensthorpe itself, if parts of it +are as old as they seem to be. Any priest’s holes, or secret passages, +or things of that sort?” + +“There are one or two,” Cecil admitted. “But we don’t make a show of +them. In fact, even Joan doesn’t know how to get into them. There’s +some sort of ‘Mistletoe Bough’ story in the family: a girl went into +one of the passages, forgot how to work the spring to get out again, +lost her nerve apparently, and stayed there till she died. It so +happened that she was the only one of the family in the house at the +time, so there was no one to help her out. Since then, we’ve kept the +secret of the springs from our girls. No use running risks.” + +“And even Joan hasn’t wheedled it out of you?” + +“No, not even Joan. Maurice and I are the only ones who can get into +these places.” + +Sir Clinton evidently approved of this. + +“Short of opening the passages up altogether, that seems the best +thing to do. One never knows one’s luck. By the way, in an old place +like this you ought to have a stock of family legends. You’ve got +these Fairy Houses. Is there anything else of general interest?” + +Cecil seemed to have recovered something of his normal good humour; +and his face betrayed almost a grin of amusement as he replied: + +“Oh, yes! We’ve got a family ghost—or so the country-folk say. I’ve +never come across it myself; but it’s common talk that the family +spectre is a White Man who walks in the woods just before the head of +the family dies. All rot, you know. Nobody believes in it, really. But +it’s quite an old-established tradition round about here.” + +Sir Clinton laughed. + +“You certainly don’t seem to take him very seriously. What about +Family Curses? Are you well supplied?” + +“You’d better apply to Maurice if you’re keen on Family Curses. He +seems to have specialized in that branch, if you ask me.” + + + +CHAPTER II + +Mr. Polegate’s Sense of Humour + +“How time flies!” said Joan Chacewater, in mock despondency. “To-night +I’m in my prime. To-morrow I shall be twenty-one, with all my bright +youth behind me. Five years after that, I shall quite possibly be +married to Michael here, if I’m still alive and he hasn’t died in the +meantime. Then I shall sit o’ nights darning his socks in horn-rimmed +spectacles, and sadly recalling those glad days when I was young and +still happy. It’s dreadful! I feel I want to cry over it. Give me +something to cry into, Michael; I seem to have mislaid my bag.” + +Michael Clifton obligingly held out a handkerchief. Joan looked at it +disparagingly. + +“Haven’t you anything smaller than that? It discourages me. I’m not +going to cry on a manufacturing scale. It wouldn’t be becoming.” + +Una Rainhill laid her cigarette down on the ash-tray beside her. + +“If you’re going to be as particular as that, Joan, I think I’d be +content with a gulp or two of emotion or perhaps a lump in the throat. +Cheer up! You’ve one more night before the shadows fall.” + +“Ah, there it is!” said Joan, tragically. “You’re young, Una, and you +never had any foresight, anyway. But I can see it all coming. I can +see the fat ankles”—she glanced down at her own slim ones—“and the +artificial silk stockings at three-and-eleven the pair; because +Michael’s business will always be mismanaged, with him at the head of +it. And I’ll have that red nose that comes from indigestion; because +after Michael ends up in bankruptcy, we won’t be able to keep a maid, +and I never could cook anything whatever. And then Michael will grow +fat, and short of breath and bald . . .” + +“That’ll be quite enough for the present,” interrupted the outraged +Michael. “I’m not so sure about letting you marry me at all, after +that pleasant little sketch.” + +“If you can’t drop those domineering ways of yours, Michael, I shall +withdraw,” Joan warned him, coldly. “You can boss other people as much +as you choose; I rather like to see you doing it. But it doesn’t go +with me, remember. If you show these distressing signs of wanting your +own way, I shall simply have to score you off my list of possibles. +And that would no doubt be painful to both of us—to you, at any rate.” + +“Oh, to both of us, to both of us, I’m sure. I wouldn’t dream of +contradicting you, Joan. Where would you be, if the only serious +candidate dropped out? Anything rather than that.” + +“Well, it’s a blessing that one man seems to have some sense,” Joan +admitted, turning to the others. “One can’t help liking Michael, if +it’s only for the frank way he acknowledges when he’s in the wrong. +Skilful handling does a lot with the most unpromising material, of +course.” + +Cecil leaned over in his chair and peered athwart the greenery which +surrounded the nook in the winter-garden in which they were sitting. + +“There’s Foxy wandering round.” + +He raised his voice: + +“Are you looking for us, Foxy? We’re over here.” + +Foxton Polegate’s freckled face, surmounted by a shock of reddish +hair, appeared at the entrance to their recess. + +“Been hunting about for you,” he explained as he sat down. “Couldn’t +make out where you’d got to.” + +He turned to Joan. + +“Dropped across this evening on important business. Fact is, I’ve lost +my invitation-card and the book of words. Didn’t read it carefully +when it came. So thought I’d drop over and hear what’s what. +Programme, I mean, and all that sort of thing, so there’ll be no +hitch.” + +Una leaned over and selected a fresh cigarette from the box. + +“You’re hopeless, Foxy,” she pronounced. “One of these memory courses +is what you need badly. Why not treat the thing as a practical joke +instead of in earnest? _Then_ you’d have no difficulty. Jokes are the +only things you ever seem to take seriously.” + +“Epigrams went completely out before you were born, Una,” Foxy +retorted. “Don’t drag ’em from their graves at this hour of the +century. And don’t interrupt Joan in her instructions to the guest of +the evening. Don’t you see she’s saying ’em over nervously to herself +for fear she forgets ’em?” + +“There’s a bit too much of the harassed nursemaid about you, Foxy, +with all your ‘don’ts,’” Joan broke in. “Now take your stylus and +tablets and jot this down carefully, for I won’t repeat it under a +shilling a page. Here’s the programme. Ten p.m.: Arrival of +distinguished guests. (They’re all distinguished, except you, Foxy.) +Brilliant and animated conversation by those who can manage it; the +rest can listen intelligently. (You may try listening, Foxy, if it +isn’t too much of a strain.) The cloak-room, picture-gallery, museum, +and poultry-yard will be thrown open for inspection by the public +absolutely free of charge. It won’t cost you a cent. Bridge-tables +will be provided for the curiosities who don’t dance. Dancing will +begin straightway and will be continued up to 11.45, when the judges +will take their seats. As soon as they are comfortable, the march-past +will start. All guests must present themselves at this without fail, +Foxy. At five minutes to twelve the identity of the prize-winners will +be disclosed. When midnight strikes, all guests will remove their +masks, even at the cost of shocking the company in some cases. Dancing +will then be resumed and will continue into the dewy dawn. And that’s +how it will take place according to plan.” + +“There’s just one point,” said Foxy, hesitatingly. “Are the prizes +portable things, or shall I have to hire a van to take mine away with +me?” + +“I shouldn’t worry a bit about that, Foxy,” said Una, comfortingly. +“We’ve decided to keep the prizes in the family, you see. Joan gets +one, because it will be her birthday. I get the other for the best +female costume. Cecil, Maurice, and Michael are going to toss odd-man +for the two men’s prizes. So you can come as a Teddy Bear without +pockets if you like. It won’t be of any consequence. You’ll have +nothing to carry away.” + +“Can’t say fairer than that,” Foxy admitted. “Always liked that plain, +straightforward way of doing things myself.” + +A recollection of his talk with Sir Clinton passed across Cecil +Chacewater’s mind, and without reflection he communicated it to the +others: + +“By the way, Sir Clinton seemed a trifle worried over this affair. He +pointed out to me that some scallywag might creep in amongst the +guests and play Old Harry in the museum if he got the chance.” + +Just at this moment, Maurice Chacewater passed along the alley in the +winter-garden from which the nook opened. + +“Maurice!” Joan called to her brother. “Come here for a moment, +please.” + +Maurice turned back and entered the recess. He seemed tired; and there +was a certain hesitancy in his manner as though he were not quite sure +of himself. His sister made a gesture inviting him to sit down, but he +appeared disinclined to stay. + +“What’s the trouble?” he asked, with a weary air. + +“Cecil’s been suggesting that it’s hardly safe to leave the +collections open to-morrow night, in case a stranger got in with a +mask on. Hadn’t we better have some one to stay in the museum and look +after them?” + +“Cecil needn’t worry his head,” Maurice returned, ignoring his +brother. “I’m putting one of the keepers on to watch the museum.” + +He turned on his heel and went off along the corridor. Foxy gazed +after him with a peculiar expression on his face. + +“Maurice looks a bit done-up, doesn’t he?” he finally said, turning +back towards the group about him. “He hasn’t been quite all right for +a while. Seems almost as if he expected a thunderbolt to strike him +any minute, doesn’t he? A bit white about the gills and holding +himself in all the time.” + +Before any one could reply to this, Joan rose and beckoned to Michael. + +“Come along, Michael. I’ll play you a hundred up, if you like. +There’ll be no one in the billiard-room.” + +Michael Clifton rose eagerly from his chair and followed her out. Foxy +looked after them. + +“As an old friend of the family, merely wanting to know, _are_ those +two engaged or not? They go on as if they were and as if they weren’t. +It’s most confusing to plain fellows like me.” + +“I doubt if they know themselves,” said Una, “so I’d advise you not to +waste too much brain-matter over it, Foxy. What do boys of your age +know about such things?” + +“Not much, not much, I admit. Cupid seems to pass me by on his rounds. +Perhaps it’s the red hair. Or maybe the freckles. Or because I’m not +the strong, talkative sort like Michael. Or just Fate, or something.” + +“I expect it’s just Something, as you say,” Una confirmed in a +sympathetic tone. “That seems, somehow, to explain everything, doesn’t +it?” + +“As it were, yes,” retorted Foxy. “But don’t let the fact that you’ve +ensnared Cecil—poor chap—lead you into putting on expert airs with me. +Betrays inexperience at once, that. Only the very young do it.” + +His face lighted up. + +“I’ve just thought of something. What a joke! Suppose we took the +Chief Constable’s tip and engineered a sham robbery to-morrow night? +Priceless, what? Carry it through in real good style. Make Maurice sit +up for a day or two, eh? Do his liver good if he’d something to worry +about.” + +Cecil’s face showed indecision. + +“I shouldn’t mind giving Maurice a twinge or two just to teach him +manners,” he confessed. “But I don’t see much in the notion as it +stands, Foxy. Maurice is posting a keeper in the museum, you know; and +that complicates things a bit. The keeper would spot any of us +tampering with things. He knows us all as well as his own brother.” + +“Not in fancy dress, with a mask on, dear boy. Don’t forget that part +of it. + + ‘Fancy me in fancy dress, + Fancy me as Good Queen Bess!’” + +he hummed softly. “Only I don’t think I’ll come as Good Queen Bess, +after all.” + +Cecil knitted his brows slightly and seemed to be considering Foxy’s +idea. + +“I wouldn’t mind giving Maurice a start,” he admitted +half-reluctantly. “And your notion might be good enough if one could +work it out properly. Question is, can you? Suppose you suddenly make +a grab for some of the stuff. The keeper’ll be down on you like a +shot. He’ll yell for help; and you’ll be pinched for a cert. before +you could get away. There doesn’t seem to be anything in it, Foxy.” + +“Hold on for a minute. I’ll see my way through it.” + +Foxy took a cigarette, lighted it, and seemed to cogitate deeply over +the first few puffs. + +“I’ve got it!” he announced. “It’s dead easy. Suppose one of us grabs +the keeper while the other helps himself to the till? We could easily +knock out the keeper between us and get off all right without an alarm +being raised.” + +Cecil shook his head. + +“No, I draw the line at using a sand-bag or a knuckle-duster on our +own keeper. That’s barred, Foxy. Think again.” + +“There’s aye a way,” Foxy assured him sententiously. “Give me another +jiffy or two. This is how it goes. We mustn’t knock out the keeper. We +mustn’t be recognized. We’ve got to get away scot-free, or the joke +would be on us. These the conditions?” + +Cecil nodded. + +“This is where pure genius comes in,” Foxy announced with pride. “How +does one recognize any one? By looking at ’em. So if the keeper can’t +look at us, he won’t recognize us. That’s as sound as Euclid, if not +sounder.” + +“Well?” asked Una, joining in the conversation. + +“Well, he won’t recognize us if the place is dark, then,” explained +Foxy, triumphantly. “All we have to do is to get the light in the room +switched off, and the thing’s as good as done.” + +“That seems to hit the mark,” Cecil agreed. “But that makes it a +three-handed job, you know: one to grab the keeper; one to snaffle the +stuff; and one to pull out the fuse of the museum light from the +fuse-box. Where’s our third man?” + +Una leaned forward eagerly. + +“I’ll do that part for you! I’d like to make Maurice sit up. He hasn’t +been very nice to me lately; and I want to pay him out just a little.” + +“Nonsense, Una,” Cecil interrupted. “You can’t be mixed up in a joke +of this sort. There’s almost bound to be a row after it. It doesn’t +matter in my case; Maurice has his knife into me anyway, you know. But +there’s no need for you to be getting your fingers nipped.” + +Una brushed the suggestion aside. + +“What can Maurice do to me even if he does find out? I’ve nothing to +do with him. And, besides, how is he going to find out anything about +it? I suppose you’ll just keep the things for a day or two and then +return them by some way that he can’t trace. He’ll never know who did +it, unless we let it out ourselves. And we mustn’t let it out, of +course.” + +Foxy nodded his agreement. Cecil was longer in his consideration; but +at last he seemed to fall in with the arrangement. + +“Well, so long as Una’s name isn’t mixed up in it, Foxy, I’m your man. +It’s a silly caper; but I’m not above going into it for the sport of +vexing my good brother.” + +“Right!” said Foxy, with relief. “Now the next article: What’s the +best thing to go for? It must be portable, of course.” + +Cecil pondered for a moment; then, as a thought struck him, he +laughed. + +“Here’s the game. It may be news to you, Foxy, but my good brother is +taking steps to sell off our collections.” + +Foxy was quite plainly staggered by this news. + +“All the stuff your father got together? Surely not! Well, that’s the +limit!” + +“Quite,” confirmed Cecil. “I’d prevent it if I could; but he’s got the +whip-hand, and that’s all there is to it.” + +Foxy seemed still slightly incredulous. + +“Why, your Governor loved that stuff as it were a child! And Maurice +doesn’t need the money he’ll get for it. It’s . . . it’s shameful! My +word! If I were in your shoes, Cecil, I believe I’d really steal the +stuff instead of only pretending to grab it.” + +“I’m sorely tempted,” said Cecil, half-grimly. “Now here’s the point. +It seems Maurice has got into touch with Kessock, the Yank +millionaire. Kessock wants to buy the Medusa Medallions—the very thing +my father set most store by in the whole lot. Kessock’s sent over an +agent of his—this fellow Foss who’s staying here just now—to settle up +the business, see to the genuineness of the things, and so forth. I’ve +nothing against Foss. He’s only doing his job and he seems all right. +I don’t like some of his American manners; but that’s neither here nor +there. The point is, the deal’s just going to be closed. Now if we +lift these medallions, won’t Maurice look an extra-sized ass?” + +“Absoluto!” said Foxy. “I see what you’re after. We lift ’em. Foss +wants ’em at once. He can’t get ’em. P’raps the deal’s off—for the +time at least. And Maurice looks a prize ape.” + +“Yes,” Cecil snapped, angrily. “That’ll perhaps teach him a lesson.” + +Una Rainhill had been thinking while this last part of the +conversation had been going on. + +“There’s one thing you haven’t provided against, Foxy,” she pointed +out. “Suppose you manage everything as you’ve arranged. Even if you +get clear away from the museum, there’s almost certain to be some one +in the passage outside who’ll see you rush out. And then the game +would be up. It’s not enough to dowse the light in the museum. You’ll +need to put all the house lights out as well.” + +“That’s sound,” Foxy agreed at once. “That means that you’ll need to +pull out the main switch instead of just the fuse of the museum. It’s +an even easier job, with no chance of a mistake in it. And what a +spree it’ll be. The whole shop will be buzzing like an overturned +hive! It’ll be great sport. And, of course, there’ll be such a wild +confusion before they get the lights on again, that we’ll come out of +it absolutely O.K. All we have to do is to saunter quietly out of the +museum and help to restore order among the rabble in the dark. By the +time the lights go on again, we’ll be anywhere it suits us to be. +That’s a master-stroke of yours, Una. Couldn’t be bettered.” + +Cecil glanced at his wrist-watch. + +“Time’s getting on, Foxy. We’ve sketched the general idea, but we must +get this thing down to dots now. Everything will depend on +synchronizing things exactly. We can’t afford to leave affairs to the +last moment; for we mustn’t be seen together, you know, to-morrow +night.” + +Foxy nodded assent and pulled out a notebook. + +“Here it is, then,” he declared. “I’ll make three copies—one for each +of us—and we can burn ’em once we’ve memorized ’em later on. Now, +first of all, we can’t start our game too early. That’d be a mistake. +Let ’em all get well mixed up in dancing and so forth, before we begin +operations.” + +Cecil and Una assented to this at once. + +“Midnight’s the limit at the other end,” Foxy pointed out. “Can’t +afford to wait for the unmasking, for then the keeper would know us +and remember we’d been in the museum when the thing happened.” + +His fellow-conspirators made no objection. + +“In between those limits, I think this would be about right,” Foxy +proposed. “First of all, we set our three watches to the same time. +Better do it now, for fear of forgetting.” + +When this had been done, he continued: + +“At 11.40 Una goes to the main switch. You’ll have to show her where +it is, Cecil, either to-night or to-morrow morning. At 11.40, also, +Cecil and I wander independently into the museum. I remember quite +well where the medallions are kept.” + +“Wait a moment,” interrupted Cecil. “Just remember that the three real +medallions and your three electrotypes are lying side by side in the +glass case. The real medallions are in the top row; your electros are +the bottom row.” + +Foxy made a note of this and then went on: + +“Your business, Cecil, will be to mark down the keeper. Get so near +him that you can jump on him for certain the very instant the lights +go out. Make sure you can get his hands or his wrists at the first +grab. You mustn’t fumble it or you’ll shipwreck the whole caboodle.” + +“I’ll manage it all right,” Cecil assured him. + +“In the meantime I’ll be stooping over the medallion case, looking at +the stuff, with something in my hand to break the glass. I’ll have a +thick glove, so as not to get cut with the edges when I put my hand +in.” + +“That’s sound,” said Cecil, “I hadn’t thought of the splinters.” + +“Blood would give us away at once,” Foxy pointed out. “Now comes the +real business. At a quarter to twelve precisely Una pulls out the +switch. As soon as the light goes, Cecil jumps on the keeper while I +smash the glass of the case and grab the top row of the medallions. +After that, we both cut for the door and mingle with the mob. And +remember, not a word said during the whole affair. Our voices would +give us away to the keeper.” + +He scribbled two extra copies of his time-table and handed one of +these to each of the other conspirators. + +“Now, for my sake, don’t botch this business,” he added. “I’ve played +a joke or two in my time, but this is the best I’ve ever done, and I +don’t want it spoiled by inattention to details. It’ll be worth all +the trouble to see Maurice’s face when he finds what’s happened.” + + + +CHAPTER III + +The Theft at the Masked Ball + +“I’m thankful I took my wings off,” said Ariel, leaning back in her +chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction. “You’ve no notion how much you +long to sit down when you know you daren’t do it for fear of crushing +the frames of these things. It’s not tiredness; it’s simply +tantalization.” + +She turned her eyes inquisitively on the bearded figure of her +partner. + +“I wonder who you’re supposed to be?” she mused. “You ought to have a +ticket, with a costume like that. I can’t guess who you imagine you +are—or who you really are, for that matter.” + +Her companion showed no desire to enlighten her on the last point. + +“‘My quaint Ariel, hark in thine ear,’” he quoted, but she failed to +recognize the tones of his voice. + +“Oh, now I see! We did ‘The Tempest’ one year at school. So you’re +Prospero, are you? Well, don’t let’s begin by any misunderstandings. +If you think you’re entitled to act your part by ordering me about, +you’re far mistaken. My trade union positively refuses to permit any +overtime.” + +“I’ve left my book and staff in the cloak-room,” Prospero confessed, +laughingly, “otherwise, malignant spirit . . .” + +“‘That’s my noble master!’” quoted Ariel, ironically. “Prospero was a +cross old thing. I suppose you couldn’t even throw in a bit of +conjuring to keep up appearances? It’s almost expected of you.” + +Prospero looked cautiously round the winter-garden in which they were +sitting. + +“Not much field here for my illimitable powers,” he grumbled +disparagingly, “unless you’d like me to turn Falstaff over there into +a white rabbit. And that would startle his partner somewhat, I’m +afraid, so we’d better not risk it.” + +He pondered for a moment. + +“I hate to disappoint you, Ariel. What about a turn at divination? +Would it amuse you if I told your fortune, revealed the secrets of +your soul, and what not? This is how I do it; it’s called Botanomancy, +if you desire to pursue your studies on a more convenient occasion.” + +He stretched up his hand and plucked a leaf from the tropical plant +above his head. Ariel watched him mischievously from behind her mask. + +“Well, Prospero, get along with it, will you? The next dance will be +starting sooner than immediately.” + +Prospero pretended to study the leaf minutely before continuing. + +“I see a girl who likes to play at having her own way . . . and isn’t +too scrupulous in her methods of getting it. She is very happy . . . +happier, perhaps, than she has ever been before. . . . I see two +Thresholds, one of which she has just crossed, the other which she +will cross after this next dance, I think. Yes, that is correct. +There’s some influence in the background. . . .” + +He broke off and regarded Ariel blandly. + +“So much for the signs. Now for the interpretation. You are obviously +in the very early twenties; so I infer that the Threshold you are +about to cross lies between your twentieth and twenty-first birthday. +Putting that along with the character which the leaf revealed . . . +Why, Ariel, you must be Miss Joan Chacewater, and you’ve just got +engaged!” + +“You seem to know me all right, Prospero,” Joan admitted. “But how +about the engagement? It’s too dim in here for you to have seen my +ring; and besides, I’ve had my hand in the folds of my dress ever +since I sat down.” + +“Except for one moment when you settled the band round your hair,” +Prospero pointed out. “The ring you’re wearing is more than a shade +too large for your finger—obviously it’s so new that you haven’t had +time to get it altered to fit, yet.” + +“You seem to notice things,” Joan admitted. “I wonder who you are.” + +Prospero brushed her inquiry aside. + +“A little parlour conjuring to finish up the part in due form?” he +suggested. “It’s almost time for our dance. Look!” + +He held out an empty hand for Joan’s inspection, then made a slight +snatch in the air as if seizing something in flight. When he extended +his hand again, a small diamond star glittered in the palm. + +“Take it, Joan,” said Sir Clinton in his natural voice. “I meant to +send it to you to-morrow; but at the last moment I thought I might as +well bring it with me and have the pleasure of giving it to you +myself. It’s your birthday present. I’m an old enough friend to give +you diamonds on a special occasion like this.” + +“You took me in completely,” Joan admitted, after she had thanked him. +“I couldn’t make out who you were; and I thought you were the limit in +insolence when you began talking about my private affairs.” + +“It’s Michael Clifton, of course?” Sir Clinton asked. + +“Why ‘of course’? One would think he’d been my last chance, by the way +you put it. This living on a magic island has ruined your manners, my +good Prospero.” + +“Well, he won’t let you down, Joan. You—shall I say, even you, to be +tactful—couldn’t have done better in the raffle.” + +Before Joan could reply, a girl in Egyptian costume came past their +chairs. Joan stopped her with a gesture. + +“Pin this pretty thing in the front of my band, please, Cleopatra. Be +sure you get it in the right place.” + +She held out the diamond star. Cleopatra took it without comment and +fastened it in position hastily. + +“Sit down,” Joan invited, “your next partner will find you here when +he comes. Tell us about Cæsar and Antony and all the rest of your +disreputable past. Make it exciting.” + +Cleopatra shook her head. + +“Sorry I can’t stop just now. Neither Julius nor Antony put in an +appearance to-night, so I’m spending my arts on a mere centurion. He’s +a stickler for punctuality—being a Roman soldier.” + +She glanced at her wrist-watch. + +“I must fly at once. O reservoir! as we say in Egypt, you know.” + +With a nod of farewell, she hastened along the alley and out of the +winter-garden. + +“She seems a trifle nervous about something,” Sir Clinton commented, +indifferently. + +Joan smoothed down her filmy tunic. + +“Isn’t it time we moved?” she asked. “I see Falstaff’s gone away, so +you can’t turn him into a white rabbit now; and there doesn’t seem to +be anything else you could enchant just at present. The orchestra will +be starting in a moment, anyhow.” + +She rose as she spoke. Sir Clinton followed her example, and they made +their way out of the winter-garden. + +“What costume is Michael Clifton wearing to-night?” asked Sir Clinton +as the orchestra played the opening bars of the dance. “I ought to +congratulate him; and it’s easier to pick him up at a distance if I +know how he’s dressed.” + +“Look for something in eighteenth-century clothes and a large wig, +then,” Joan directed. “He says he’s Macheath out of the ‘Beggar’s +Opera.’ I suppose he’s quite as like that as anything else. You’ll +perhaps recognize him best by a large artificial mole at the left +corner of his mouth. I observed it particularly myself.” + +She noticed that her partner seemed more on the alert than the +occasion required. + +“What are you worried about?” she demanded. “You seem to be listening +for something; and you can’t hear anything, you know, even if you +tried, because of the orchestra.” + +Sir Clinton shook off his air of preoccupation. + +“The fact is, Joan, I’ve been worried all evening. I’m really afraid +of something happening to-night. I don’t much like this mask business +with all that stuff in the collections. I’ve a feeling in my bones +that there might be trouble.” + +Joan laughed at his gloomy premonitions. + +“You won’t be kept on the rack much longer, that’s one good thing. +There’s just this dance, then the march-past for judging the costumes, +and then it will be midnight when everybody must unmask. So you’ll +have to make the best of your fears in the next half-hour. After that +there’ll be no excuse for them.” + +“Meanwhile, on with the dance, eh?” said Sir Clinton. “I see it’s no +use trying to give you a nightmare. You’re too poor a subject to repay +the labour and trouble. Besides, this music’s terribly straining on +the vocal cords if one tries to compete with it.” + +As he spoke, however, the orchestra reached a diminuendo in the score +and sank to comparative quietness. Joan looked here and there about +the room as they danced and at last detected the figure for which she +was searching. + +“That’s Michael over there,” she pointed out, “the one dancing with +the girl dressed as . . .” + +Across the sound of the music there cut the sharp report of a +small-calibre pistol fired in some adjacent room. On the heels +of it came the crash and tinkle of falling glass, and, almost +simultaneously, a cry for help in a man’s voice. + +Sir Clinton let Joan’s hand go and turned to the door; but before he +could take a step, the lights above them vanished and the room was +plunged in darkness. Joan felt a hand come out and grip her arm. + +“That you, Joan?” + +“Yes.” + +“They’ve taken out the main switch,” Sir Clinton said hurriedly. “Get +hold of some man at once and show him where it is. We want the lights +as quick as possible. I can trust you not to lose your head. Take a +man with you for fear of trouble. We don’t know what’s happening.” + +“Very well,” Joan assured him. + +“Hurry!” Sir Clinton urged. + +His hand dropped from her arm as he moved invisibly away towards the +door. In the darkness around her she could hear movements and startled +exclamations. The orchestra, after mechanically playing a couple of +bars, had fallen to silence. Some one blundered into her and passed on +before she could put out her hand. + +“Well, at least I know where the door is,” she assured herself; and +she began to move towards it. + +Meanwhile the cries for help continued to come from the museum. Then, +abruptly, they were hushed; and she shuddered as she thought of what +that cessation might mean. She moved forward and came to what seemed +an unobstructed space on the floor, over which she was able to advance +freely. + +Her whole senses were concentrated on reaching the exit; but her mind +appeared to work independently of her own volition and to conjure up +the possibilities behind this series of events. Sir Clinton had +evidently expected some criminal attempt that night; and he had +assumed that the museum would be the objective. But suppose he were +wrong. Perhaps the affair in the museum was only a blind to draw +towards it all the men outside the ball-room. Then, when they were +disposed of, there might come an incursion here. Most of the women had +taken advantage of their fancy dress to deck themselves out with +jewellery, and a few armed men could easily reap a small fortune in a +minute or two. Despite the soundness of her nerves, she began to feel +anxious, and to conjure up still more appalling pictures. + +Suddenly her eyes were dazzled by a flash of light as a man beside her +struck a match. Almost at the same moment she felt a hand on her +shoulder and she was pulled backwards so brusquely that she almost +lost her balance and slipped. + +“Put out that match, you fool!” said Michael’s voice. “Do you want to +have these girls’ dresses in a blaze?” + +The flare of the match had revealed a circle of startled faces. The +room was filled with excited voices and a sound of confused movements. +Over at the orchestra a music-stand fell with a clash of metal. Then, +close beside her in the darkness, Joan heard a girl’s voice repeating +monotonously in tones of acute fear: “What does it mean? Oh, what does +it mean?” + +“Much good _that_ does any one,” Joan muttered, contemptuously. Then, +aloud, she called: “Michael!” + +Before he could reply, there came a sharp exclamation in a man’s +voice: + +“Stand back, there! My partner’s fainted.” + +The possibilities involved in a panic suddenly became all too clear in +Joan’s mind. If half a dozen people lost their heads, the girl might +be badly hurt. + +Michael’s voice was lifted again, in a tone that would have carried +through a storm at sea: + +“Everybody stand fast! You’ll be trampling the girl underfoot if you +don’t take care. Stand still, confound you! Pull the blinds up and +throw back the curtains. It’s a moonlight night.” + +There was a rustling as those nearest the windows set about the +execution of his orders. Light suddenly appeared, revealing the +strained faces and uneasy attitudes of the company. Joan turned to +Michael. + +“Come with me and put in the switch, Michael. Sir Clinton’s gone to +the museum. We must get the lights on quick.” + +Michael, with a word to his partner, followed his fiancée towards the +door. A thought seemed to strike him just as he was leaving the room: + +“Wait here, everybody, till we get the lights on again. You’ll just +run risks by moving about in the dark outside. It’s nothing. Probably +only a fuse blown.” + +“Now then, Joan, where’s that switch?” he added as they passed out of +the door. + +It was pitch-dark in the rest of the house; but Joan knew her way and +was able to grope along the corridors without much difficulty. As they +came near the switch-box, the lights flashed up again. One of the +servants appeared round a corner. + +“Some one had pulled out the switch, sir,” he explained. “It took me +some time to make my way to it and put it in again.” + +“Stout fellow!” said Michael, approvingly. + +At that moment, a voice shouted above the confused noises of the +house: + +“Come on, you fellows! He’s got away. Lend hand to chase him.” + +And a sound of running steps filled the hall, as the male guests +poured out in answer to the summons. + +“You don’t need me any longer, Joan?” Michael questioned. “Right! Then +I’m off to lend a hand.” + +He ran to join the rest. + +Left alone, Joan retraced her steps to the ball-room; but instead of +re-entering it, she passed on in the direction of the museum, whither +a number of the guests were making their way also. + +“I hope nobody’s got badly hurt,” she thought to herself as she +hurried along. “I do wish I’d taken the hint and not asked to have +that collection thrown open to-night.” + +Much to her relief, she found Sir Clinton sitting on a chair beside +the museum door. In the doorway stood the keeper, looking none the +worse and busying himself with fending off the more inquisitive among +the guests who wished to enter the room. Joan noticed that the museum +itself was in darkness though the lights were burning in the rest of +the house. + +“You’re not hurt, are you, Sir Clinton?” she asked as she came up to +him. + +“Nothing to speak of. The fellow kicked me on the ankle as he came +out. I’m temporarily lamed, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, I +think.” + +He rubbed his ankle as he spoke. + +“Are you all right, Mold?” Joan inquired. + +The keeper reassured her. + +“No harm done, Miss Joan. They didn’t hurt me. But I’m sorry, miss, I +didn’t manage to get hold of them. They were on me before I could do +anything, me being so taken aback by the lights going out.” + +“What’s happened?” Joan questioned Sir Clinton. “Has anything been +stolen?” + +“We don’t know yet what’s gone,” he replied, answering her last +question first. “The bulk of the lamp’s smashed in there”—he nodded +towards the museum—“and until they bring a fresh one, we can’t find +out what damage has been done. As to what happened, it seems rather +confused at present; but I expect we shall get it cleared up +eventually. There seems to have been a gang at work; and I’m afraid +some things may be missing when we begin to look over the collection.” + +“I wish I’d taken your hint,” Joan admitted, frankly. “It’s partly my +blame, I feel, for neglecting your advice. I was silly to laugh at you +when you spoke about it.” + +“I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, Joan,” Sir Clinton +reassured her. “It was really only one chance in a million that +anything of the sort would happen to-night. Besides, if we manage to +nail this fellow that they’re all after, we may be able to get some +clue to his confederates. Quite evidently there was a gang at work, +and he may be induced to split on his friends if we can lay hands on +him; and then we’ll get the stuff back again without much trouble, I +hope.” + +He glanced at her, as though to see the effect of his words; then, as +his eyes caught her mask, he seemed struck by another idea. + +“That reminds me,” he said, “we must get these masks off. Send some +one round at once, please, Joan, to order every one to unmask now. And +have all the outer doors shut, too. It’s a futile precaution, I’m +afraid; because any one could slip out during the confusion when there +was no light: but we may as well do what we can even at this stage.” + +He removed his own mask as he spoke, and pulled away the false beard +which he had worn as Prospero. Joan loosened her mask and went off to +give the necessary orders. In a few moments she returned. + +“Now tell me what did happen,” she demanded. + +“There’s no one killed, or even hurt,” Sir Clinton assured her. “This +ankle of mine’s the only casualty, so far as I know; and I expect I’ll +be able to limp about quite comfortably by to-morrow.” + +“I’m thankful it’s no worse,” said Joan, with relief. + +“All I know about the business comes from Mold, here,” Sir Clinton +went on. “It seems he was patrolling the museum at the time the thing +happened, under your brother’s orders. Perhaps half a dozen +people—under a dozen, he says, at any rate—were in the place then. +Some of them were examining the cases in the bays; some of them were +looking at the things in the big centre case. Mold doesn’t remember +what costumes they were wearing. I don’t blame him. People had been +passing in and out all through the evening; and there was no reason +why he should take particular note of the guests at that special +moment.” + +Sir Clinton glanced up at the keeper, who was looking rather ashamed +at his inability to furnish better information. + +“Don’t you worry, Mold. I doubt if I’d have had any more to tell, +myself, if I’d been there. One can’t be expected to remember +everything.” + +He turned back to Joan. + +“The next thing that happened was a pistol-shot, and the light went +out. Some light filtered in from the door of the room, for the lamps +in the hall here were still blazing; but before Mold could do +anything, some one gripped him from behind and got his wrists twisted +behind his back. In the struggle Mold was swung round, so that he +couldn’t see the central case even in what light there was. Then the +lights outside were switched off and he heard a smashing of glass. +There was a bit of a struggle, apparently; and then all at once he +felt himself let loose. As soon as he got free, he lit a match and +posted himself at the door to prevent any one getting away; and he +stayed there until the lights went on again. Then he made all his +prisoners unmask and those whom he didn’t recognize himself he kept +there until some one he knew came to identify them. They’re all people +you know quite well, Joan. More than half of them were girls, who seem +rather unlikely people to go in for robbery with violence, to put it +mildly. Mold made a list of them, if we happen to need it. But I don’t +think we’re likely to find the criminal amongst them. This affair was +too well planned for that. The real gang have got clean away, I’m +pretty sure.” + +“And what about your ankle?” demanded Joan. + +“Oh, that? I happened to arrive at the door fairly quickly after the +lights went out. Just as I got to it, a fellow came dashing out; and I +made a grab at him as well as I could in the dark. But one can’t see +what one’s doing; and I didn’t get a decent grip on him as he charged +out on top of me. He landed me a fairly effective kick—right on the +ankle-bone, by bad luck—and then, before I could get my hands on him +properly he tore himself clear and was off down the hall towards the +front door. I hobbled after him as best I could; and there he was—a +fellow dressed in Pierrot costume—running quite leisurely over the +gravel sweep and making for the woods. I couldn’t go after him; but he +was quite clear in the moonlight and he’d a long way to go before +getting into cover; so I raised a hue and cry at once, and quite a +crowd of stout fellows are after him. He’ll have to run a bit faster +than he was doing, if he expects to get off. These pine-woods have no +undergrowth to speak of; and he’ll find it difficult to conceal +himself in a hurry.” + +As Sir Clinton ended his narrative a servant came hurrying up the +hall, bringing a tall pair of steps with him. + +“Is that the new lamp?” Sir Clinton demanded. “All right. Light a +match or two, Mold, to let him see where to put the steps. And don’t +tramp about too much while you’re fixing them up, please. I want to +see things undisturbed as far as possible.” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +The Chase in the Woods + +In earlier days, Michael Clifton had been reckoned among the more +creditable runners in the School Mile; and he had never allowed +himself to fall out of training. Thus as he joined the throng of +would-be pursuers emerging from the house, he felt a certain +confidence that the fugitive would at any rate have to put his best +foot foremost if he was to avoid being run down. Before he had covered +twenty yards, however, Michael found himself handicapped by his +costume. The full-bottomed wig dropped off almost immediately, and the +shoes were not so troublesome as he had feared; but the sleeves of his +coat interfered with his movements, and the long skirts hampered his +legs. + +“I wonder if these coves in the eighteenth century ever ran a step,” +he grumbled. “If they did it in this kit, they must have been wonders. +I must get rid of the truck.” + +He pulled up and stripped off the full-skirted coat; then, as an +after-thought, he removed the long waistcoat as well. While doing +this, he glanced ahead to see how the chase was progressing. The light +of the full moon, now at its highest in the cloudless heavens, lit up +the whole landscape before him almost as clearly as daylight. Far +ahead, he could see the white figure of the escaping thief as it +ascended the long, gentle slope towards the pine-woods. + +“I wonder what tempted the beggar to choose that particular costume on +a night like this,” Michael speculated. “It’s the most conspicuous +affair he could have put on. Well, all the better for us.” + +The quarry had evidently secured a fair start, for the nearest group +of pursuers was still a considerable distance behind him. The hunters +were strung out in an irregular file, knotted here and there with +groups of three or four runners; and the line extended back almost to +Michael’s position. Behind him, he could hear fresh reinforcements +emerging from the house, shouting as they came. + +“They’d better save their breath,” Michael commented critically to +himself. “That long rise’ll take it out of a good many of them.” + +He settled down to his favourite stride; and very soon began to +overtake the laggards at the tail of the chase. In front of him +he saw a Cardinal Richelieu with kilted cassock; but the Cardinal +found his costume too much for him and pulled out of the race as +Michael passed him. Shortly after, Michael drew level with an early +nineteenth-century dandy and for a few seconds they raced neck and +neck. The dandy, however, was unable to stay the pace. + +“It’s these damned Johnny Walker boots,” he gasped, as he fell behind. + +Michael, running comfortably, began to take a faint amusement in the +misfortunes of his colleagues. He could not help smiling as he passed +a Minotaur, sitting beside the track and making furious efforts to +disentangle himself from his pasteboard bull’s head which seemed to +have become clamped in position. But as he found two more of the +hunters by the wayside, a fresh point of view occurred to him. + +“If they’re going to drop out at this rate, there won’t be many of us +left at the finish to tackle the beggar; and he’s armed. We’ll need +all the men we can scrape up, if we’re to make sure of him.” + +Glancing ahead again, he was relieved to see that he had gained a fair +amount of ground on the fugitive; and now he began to pass runner +after runner, as the rising slope told on the weaker pursuers. He +reached the group at the head of the chase just as the escaping +burglar dashed into the shadow of the woods a hundred yards in +advance. + +“He’ll dodge us now, if he can,” Michael warned his companions, who +evidently were unacquainted with the ground. “Keep your eyes on him at +any cost.” + +But as they entered the pine arcades, Michael found that he was +mistaken. The quarry maintained his lead; but he made no effort to +leave the beaten track. Ahead of them they could see his white-clad +figure dappled with light and darkness as he sped up the broad +pathway. + +Suddenly, Michael remembered what lay beyond the pine-wood. Without +raising his voice, for fear the runner in front should hear him, he +explained the situation. + +“He doesn’t know what he’s running into. There’s a big quarry up +there, with barbed wire fences on each side. If we can keep him +straight for it, we’ll have him pinned.” + +On went the fugitive, still maintaining his lead and glancing over his +shoulder from time to time, as though he were gauging the distance +which separated him from his closest pursuers. + +“The beggar can run, certainly,” Michael admitted to himself. “But +running isn’t going to help him much in a minute or two. We have him +on toast.” + +In a few moments the moon shone bright through the trees ahead. As +they reached the edge of the wood, the white figure in front of them +showed up clearly as it sprinted across the strip of open ground, +straight for the spinney which bounded the quarry cliff. With a +gesture, Michael called his motley group to a halt. + +“Wait a minute,” he ordered. “You, Mephistopheles, get off to the left +there, outside the spinney. Go on until you strike barbed wire. Take +this Prehistoric Man—oh, it’s you, is it, Frankie? Well, both of you +get down there and act as stoppers, so that he can’t sneak off along +the fence. Oliver Cromwell and you in the funny coat! You’re to do the +same over yonder on the right. Put some hurry into it, now! And don’t +move in towards him till you get the word. The rest of you, extend a +bit along the near edge of the spinney. Not too close; give yourselves +a chance of spotting him if he breaks cover. And don’t yell unless you +actually see him. We’ve got him shut in now, and we can afford to wait +for reinforcements. Here they come!” + +Two panting runners breasted the hill as he spoke. At this moment +there came from beyond the spinney the sound of a splash. Michael was +taken aback. + +“The beggar can’t have dived over, surely. It’s full of rocks down +below. We’ll have to hurry up. He might get away, after all, if he’s +extra lucky.” + +A fresh group of pursuers gave him the reinforcements he needed; and +he fed them into his cordon at its weak points. + +“Pass the word for the whole line to close in!” + +The cordon began to contract around the spinney, the wide gaps in it +closing up as it advanced. + +“The beggar’s probably got a pistol; look out for yourselves among the +trees,” Michael cautioned them as they reached the boundary of the +plantation. “Don’t hurry. And keep in touch, whatever you do.” + +He himself was at the centre of the line and was the first to enter +the tiny wood. The advance was slow; for here there was some +undergrowth which might offer a hiding-place to the fugitive; and this +was carefully scrutinized, clump by clump, before the line moved +forward as a whole. Michael meant to make certain of capturing the +burglar; and he could afford now to go about the matter deliberately. +Fresh reinforcements in twos and threes were still streaming in from +the pine-wood. + +It took only a few minutes, however, to draw his screen through the +spinney; for the belt of trees was a narrow one. Every instant he +expected to hear a shout indicating that the quarry had been run to +earth; but none came. His line emerged intact from the trees, forming +an arc of which the cliff-face was the chord; and as his men came out +into the moonlight Michael had to admit to himself that no one could +well have crept through any gap in the cordon. + +“He must be out here, hiding among these seats,” he shouted. “Don’t +break your line any more than you can help. Advance to that balustrade +in front. Rush him, if he shows up.” + +Now that he was sure of his quarry, Michael at last had leisure to +note the tincture of the bizarre in the scene before him. The +high-riding moon whitened the terrace and touched with glamour the +motley costumes of the hunters preparing for their final swoop. Here +Robin Hood and a hatless Flying Dutchman were stooping to peer below +one of the marble seats. Farther along the line Lohengrin and a +Milkman discussed something eagerly in whispers. On the left the +Prehistoric Man loomed up like a Troglodyte emerging from his cave; +while beyond him Mephistopheles leaned upon the railing, scanning the +water below. From the inky shadow of the spinney Felix the Cat stole +softly out to join the cordon. + +“A weird-looking gang we are,” Michael commented to himself as he +gazed about him. + +Only a few steps separated the hunters from the clear floor of the +terrace. In a second or two at most, the man they were chasing must +break cover and make a dash for liberty or else tamely surrender. +Slowly the line crept forward. + +“We’ve got him now!” a voice cried, exultantly. + +But the living net swept on past the marble tier without catching +anything in its meshes. Between it and the balustrade was nothing but +the untenanted paving of the terrace. + +“He’s got away!” ejaculated some one in tones of complete amazement. +“Well, I’m damned if I see how he managed it.” + +The chain broke up into individuals, who hurried hither and thither on +the esplanade searching even in the most unlikely spots for the +missing fugitive. All at once Michael’s eye caught something which had +been concealed in the shadows thrown by the moon. + +“Here’s a rope, you fellows! He’s gone down the face of the cliff. +Swum the lake, probably.” + +Mephistopheles dissented in a languid drawl. + +“Not he, Clifton. I’ve had my eye on the water ever since I got up to +the barbed wire. You could spot the faintest ripple in this moonshine. +He didn’t get off that way.” + +“Sure of that?” demanded Michael. + +“Dead sure. I watched specially.” + +Michael hesitated for a moment or two, considering the situation. Then +his face cleared. + +“I see it! I remember there’s a cave right below here, in the +cliff-face. He’s gone to ground there. Half of you get through the +barbed wire on the right; the rest take the left side. Line up on the +banks when you get down to the water. He may swim for it yet if we +don’t hurry.” + +They raced off to carry out his instructions, while Michael pulled up +the rope and flung it on the terrace. + +“That cuts off his escape in this direction,” he said to himself. “Now +we can dig him out at leisure.” + +Without hurrying, he made his way down to the water. + +“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout +it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much +bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for +he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.” + +He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last +discovered the decrepit raft. + +“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve +him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want some one to go with me. Here, +you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come +along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil +than the rest of us.” + +Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which +sank ominously under the extra weight. + +“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with +your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.” + +Under this primitive method of propulsion, the progress of the raft +was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the +cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand. +Gradually they manœuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth, +which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned +forward to the entrance. + +“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no +good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.” + +There was no reply of any sort. + +“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,” +expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black +as the pit, and I can see nothing.” + +He pulled a silver match-box from his trousers pocket. + +“Lucky I hadn’t this in my coat; for you don’t look as if you had a +pocket of any sort on you, Frankie.” + +The first match, damped by the moisture on his hands, sputtered and +died out. + +“_Hurry_ up, Guvnor,” shouted Mephistopheles, cheerfully, from the +bank. “Don’t keep us up all night with your firework display. It’s +getting a bit chilly, paddling about amongst this sedge. Not at all +the temperature I’m accustomed to at home.” + +Michael felt for another match and lighted it successfully. Standing +up on the raft, he held the light above his head and peered into the +cavity in the rock. The Prehistoric Man heard him exclaim in +amazement. + +“Damnation, Frankie! He’s not here! It’s hardly a cave at all.” + +He put his hands on the cave floor. + +“Hold tight with the raft. I’m going in to make sure.” + +He scrambled up into the hollow; but almost immediately his face +appeared again in the moonlight. + +“Nothing here. The hole’s barely big enough to take me in.” + +“Then where’s he gone?” demanded the Prehistoric Man, who was a +creature of few words. + +“I dunno! Must have given us the slip somehow. If he isn’t here, he +must be somewhere else. No getting round that.” + +He shouted the news to the watchers on the banks; and a confused sound +of argument rose from amongst the sedge. + +“Not much use hanging round the old home, Frankie. Pull for shore, +sailor. We’d best manhandle her along the face of the cliff. I’ve had +enough of that paddling.” + +When they touched firm ground again they were surrounded by their +friends, most of whom seemed to doubt whether the search of the cave +had been properly carried out. + +“I tell you,” declaimed the exasperated Michael, “I got right into the +damned hole! It’s so small that I nearly broke my nose against the +back wall as I heaved myself inside. It would have been a tight fit +for me and a squirrel together. He’s not there, whether you like it or +not. . . . I can’t help your troubles, Tommy; you can go and look for +yourself, if you like the job of lying on your tummy on a raft that’s +awash. I shan’t interfere with your simple pleasures.” + +“But . . .” + +“We’ve lost him. Is that plain enough? There’s nothing to be done but +go home again with our tails between our legs. I’m going now.” + +He accompanied his friends to the top of the cliff again; but when he +reached the terrace a fresh thought struck him, and he loitered behind +while the others, soaked and disconsolate, made their way down into +the pine-wood. When the last of them had disappeared, Michael retraced +his steps to the edge of the cliff. + +“He reached here all right,” he assured himself. “And he didn’t break +back through the cordon.” + +He stooped down, picked up the rope, and refastened it round one of +the pillars of the balustrade. + +“Every one knows there are secret passages about Ravensthorpe,” he +mused. “Perhaps this beggar has got on to one of them. And quite +possibly the end of the passage is in that cave down there. That would +explain the rope. I’ll slide down and have another look round.” + +He got into the cave-mouth without difficulty and used up the +remainder of his matches in a close examination of the interior of the +cavity; but even the closest scrutiny failed to reveal anything to his +eyes. + +“Nothing there but plain rock, so far as I can see,” he had to admit +to himself as the last match burned out. “That’s a blank end in more +senses than one.” + +Without much difficulty he swarmed up the rope again, untied it from +the balustrade, and coiled it over his arm. + +“A nice little clue for Sir Clinton Driffield to puzzle over,” he +assured himself. “Sherlock Holmes would have been on to it at once; +found where it was sold in no time; discovered who bought it before +five minutes had passed; and paralysed Watson with the whole story +that same evening over a pipeful of shag. We shall see.” + +He threw a last glance round the empty terrace and then moved off +into the spinney. As he passed into the shadow of the trees he saw, +a few yards to one side, the outline of the Fairy House dappled +in the moonshine which filtered through the leaves overhead. +Half-unconsciously, Michael halted and looked at the little building. + +“They could never have overlooked that in the hunt, surely. Well, no +harm in having a peep to make certain.” + +He dropped his coil of rope, stepped across to the house, and, +stooping down, flung open the door. Inside, he caught a flash of some +white fabric. + +“It’s the beggar after all! Here! Come out of that!” + +He gripped the inmate roughly and hauled him by main force out of his +retreat. + +“Pierrot costume, right enough!” he said to himself as he extracted +the man little by little from his refuge. Then, having got his victim +into the open: + +“Now we’ll turn you over and have a look at your face . . . Good God! +Maurice!” + +For as he turned the man on his back, it was the face of Maurice +Chacewater that met his eyes. But it was not a normal Maurice whom he +saw. The features were contorted by some excessive emotion the like of +which Michael had never seen. + +“Let me alone, damn you,” Maurice gasped, and turned over once more on +his face, resting his brow on his arm as though to shut out the +spectacle of Michael’s astonishment. + +“Are you ill?” Michael inquired, solicitously. + +“For God’s sake leave me alone. Don’t stand there gaping. Clear out, I +tell you.” + +Michael looked at him in amazement. + +“I’m going to have a cheerful kind of brother-in-law before all’s +done, it seems,” he thought to himself. + +“Can I do anything for you, Maurice?” + +“Oh, go to hell!” + +Michael turned away. + +“It’s fairly clear he doesn’t like my company,” he reflected, as he +stepped across and picked up his coil of rope from the ground. “But +I’ve known politer ways of showing it, I must say.” + +With a final glance at the prostrate figure of Maurice, he walked on +and took the road back to Ravensthorpe. But as he went a vision of +Maurice’s face kept passing before his mind’s eye. + +“There’s something damned far wrong with that beggar, whether it’s an +evil conscience or cramp in the tummy. It might be either of them, by +the look of him. He didn’t seem to want any assistance from me. That +looks more like the evil conscience theory.” + +He dismissed this with a laugh; but gradually he grew troubled. + +“There he was, in white—same as the burglar. He’s in a bit of a bate +at being discovered, that’s clear enough. He didn’t half like it, to +judge by his chat.” + +A discomforting hypothesis began to frame itself in his mind despite +his efforts to stifle it. + +“He’s the fellow, if there is one, who would know all these secret +passages about here. Suppose there really is one leading out of that +cave. He could have swarmed down the rope, got into the cave, sneaked +up the subterranean passage, and got behind us that way.” + +A fresh fact fitted suddenly in. + +“And of course the other end of the passage may be in that Fairy +House! That would explain his being there. He’d be waiting to see us +off the premises before he could venture out in his white costume.” + +He pondered over the problem as he hurried with long strides towards +the house. + +“Well,” he concluded, “I’m taking no further steps in the business. +It’s no concern of mine to go probing into the private affairs of the +family I’m going to marry into. And that’s that.” + +Then, as a fresh aspect of the matter came to his mind, he gave a sigh +of relief. + +“I must be a stricken idiot! No man would ever dream of burgling his +own house. What would he gain by it, if he did? The thing’s +ridiculous.” + +And the comfort which this view brought him was sufficient to lighten +his steps for the rest of his way. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Sir Clinton in the Museum + +“There’s the light on again in the museum,” Sir Clinton observed. “I +think we’ll go in and have a look round, now, to see if the place +suggests anything.” + +Mold stood aside to let them pass, and then resumed his watch at the +door to prevent any one else from entering the room. The servant had +just finished fitting the new globe in its place and was preparing to +remove the steps which he had used, when Sir Clinton ordered him to +leave them in position and to await further instructions. + +The museum was a room about forty feet square, with a lofty ceiling. +To judge by the panelling of the walls, it belonged to the older part +of Ravensthorpe; but the parquet of the floor seemed to be much more +modern. Round the sides were placed exhibition cases about six feet +high; and others of the same kind jutted out at intervals to form a +series of shallow bays. In the centre of the room, directly under the +lamp, stood a long, flat-topped case; and the floor beside it was +littered with broken glass. + +“I think we’ll begin at the beginning,” said Sir Clinton. + +He turned to the servant who stood waiting beside the steps. + +“Have you got the remains of the broken lamp there? + +“You can go now,” he added. “We shan’t need you further.” + +When he had received the smashed lamp, he examined it. + +“Not much to be made out of that,” he admitted. “It’s been one of +these thousand candle-power gas-filled things; and there’s practically +nothing left of it but the metal base and a few splinters of glass +sticking to it.” + +He looked up at the fresh lamp hanging above them. + +“It’s thirty feet or so above the floor. Nothing short of a +fishing-rod would reach it. Evidently they didn’t smash it by hand.” + +He stooped down and sorted out one or two small fragments of glass +from the debris at his feet. + +“These are more bits of the lamp, Joan,” he said, holding them out for +her to look at. “You see the curve of the glass; and you’ll notice +that the whole affair seems to have been smashed almost to +smithereens. There doesn’t seem to be a decent-sized fragment in the +whole lot.” + +He turned to the keeper. + +“I think we’ll shut the door, Mold. We’d better conduct the rest of +this business in private.” + +The keeper closed the door of the museum, much to the disappointment +of the group of people who had clustered about the entrance and were +watching the proceedings with interest. + +“Now, Joan, would you mind going round the wall-cases and seeing if +anything has been taken from them?” + +Joan obediently paced round the room and soon came back to report that +nothing seemed to have been removed. + +“All the cases were locked, you know,” she explained. “And there’s no +glass broken in any of them. So far as I can see, nothing’s missing +from the shelves.” + +“What about that safe let into the wall over yonder?” Sir Clinton +inquired. + +“It’s used to house one or two extra valuable things from time to +time,” Joan explained. “But to-night everything was put on show, and +the safe’s empty.” + +She went over and swung the door open, showing the vacant shelves +within. + +“We do take precautions usually,” she pointed out. “The museum door +itself is iron-plated and has a special lock. It was only to-night +that we had everything out in the show-cases.” + +Sir Clinton refrained from comment, as he knew the girl was still +blaming herself for her share in the catastrophe. He turned to examine +the rifled section of the central case. + +“What’s missing here, Joan, can you make out?” + +Obediently, Joan came to his side and ran her eye over the remaining +articles in the compartment. + +“They’ve taken the Medusa Medallions!” she exclaimed, turning pale as +she realized the magnitude of the calamity. “They’ve got the very pick +of the collection, Sir Clinton. My father would have parted with all +the rest rather than with these, I know.” + +“Nothing else gone?” + +Joan looked again at the case. + +“No, nothing else, so far as I can see. Wait a bit, though! They’ve +taken the electrotype copies as well. There were three of each: three +medallions and an electrotype from each that Foxton Polegate made for +us. The whole six are gone.” + +She cast a final glance at the compartment. + +“No, there’s nothing else missing, so far as I can see. Some of the +things are displaced a bit; but everything except the medallions and +the electros seems to be here.” + +“You’re quite sure?” + +“Certain.” + +Sir Clinton seemed satisfied. + +“Of course we’ll have to check the stuff by the catalogue to make +sure,” he said, “but I expect you’re right. The medallions alone would +be quite a good enough haul for a minute or two’s work; and probably +they had their eyes on the things as the best paying proposition of +the lot.” + +“But why did they take the electros as well?” Joan demanded. + +Then a possible explanation occurred to her. + +“Oh, of course, they wouldn’t know which was which, so they took the +lot in order to make sure.” + +“Possibly,” Sir Clinton admitted. “But don’t let’s be going too fast, +Joan. We’d better not get ideas into our minds till we’ve got all the +evidence, you know.” + +“Oh, I see,” said Joan, with a faint return of her normal spirits, +“I’m to be Watson, am I? And you’ll prove in a minute or two what an +ass I’ve made of myself. Is that the idea?” + +“Not altogether,” Sir Clinton returned, with a smile. “But let’s have +the facts before the theories.” + +He turned to the keeper. + +“Now we’ll take your story, Mold; but give us the things in the exact +order in which they happened, if you can. And don’t be worried if I +break in with questions.” + +Mold thought for a moment or two before beginning his tale. + +“I’m trying to remember how many people there were in the room just +before the lights went out,” he explained at last, “but somehow I +don’t quite seem able to put a figure on it, Sir Clinton. I’ve a sort +of feeling that some of ’em must ha’ got away before I stopped the +door—sneaked off in the dark. At least I know I felt surprised when I +saw how few I’d got left when they began to come up to me to be let +out. But that’s all I can really say, sir.” + +Sir Clinton evidently approved of the keeper’s caution. + +“Now tell us exactly what happened when the light went out. This is +the bit where I want you to be careful. Tell us everything you can +remember.” + +Mold fixed his eye on the corner of the room near the safe. + +“I was patrollin’ round the room, sir, most of the night. I didn’t +stand in one place all the time. Now just when the light was about to +go out, I was walkin’ away from this case here”—he nodded towards the +rifled central case—“and as near as may be, I’d got to the entrance to +that second-last bay, just before you come to the safe. I just turned +round to come back, when I heard a pistol goin’ off.” + +“That was the first thing that attracted your attention?” questioned +Sir Clinton. “It’s an important point, Mold.” + +“That was the first thing out o’ the common that happened,” Mold +asserted. “The pistol went bang, and out went the light, and I heard +glass tinkling all over the place.” + +“Shot the light out, did they?” Sir Clinton mused. + +He glanced up at the carved wooden ceiling, but evidently failed to +find what he was looking for. + +“Have you a pair of race-glasses, Joan? Prismatics, or even +opera-glasses? Tell Mold where he can get them, please.” + +Joan gave the keeper instructions and he left the room. + +“Knock when you come back again,” Sir Clinton ordered. “I’m going to +lock the door to keep out the inquisitive.” + +As soon as the keeper was out of earshot, Sir Clinton turned to Joan. + +“This fellow Mold, is he a reliable man? Do you know anything about +him, Joan?” + +“He’s our head keeper. We’ve always trusted him completely.” + +She glanced at Sir Clinton, trying to read the expression on his face. + +“You don’t think _he’s_ at the bottom of the business, do you? I never +thought of that!” + +“I’m only collecting facts at present. All I want to know is whether +you know Mold to be reliable.” + +“We’ve always found him so.” + +“Good. We’ll make a note of that; and if we get the thing cleared up, +then we’ll perhaps be able to confirm that opinion of yours.” + +In a few minutes a knock came at the door and Sir Clinton admitted the +keeper. + +“Prismatics?” he said, taking the glasses from Mold. “They’ll do quite +well.” + +Adjusting the focus, he subjected the ceiling of the room to a minute +scrutiny. At last he handed the glasses to Joan. + +“Look up there,” he said, indicating the position. + +Joan swept the place with the glasses for a moment. + +“I see,” she said. “That’s a bullet-hole in the wood, isn’t it?” + +Sir Clinton confirmed her guess. + +“That’s evidently where the bullet went after knocking the lamp to +pieces. Pull the steps over there, Mold. I want to have a closer look +at the thing.” + +With some difficulty, owing to his injured ankle, he ascended the +steps and inspected the tiny cavity. + +“It looks like a .22 calibre. One could carry a Colt pistol of that +size in one’s pocket and no one would notice it.” + +His eye traced out the line joining the bullet-mark and the lamp. + +“The shot was evidently fired by some one in that bay over there,” he +inferred. “Just go to where you were standing when the light went out, +Mold. Can you see into this bay here?” + +Mold looked around and discovered that a show-case interposed between +him and the point from which the pistol had been fired. + +“They evidently thought of everything,” Sir Clinton said, when he +heard Mold’s report. “If a man had brandished his pistol in front of +Mold, there was always a chance that Mold might have remembered his +costume. Firing from that hiding-place, he was quite safe, and could +take time over his aim if he wanted to.” + +He climbed down the steps and verified the matter by going to the +position from which the shot had been fired. It was evident that the +shooter was out of sight of the keeper at the actual moment of the +discharge. + +“Now what happened after that, Mold?” Sir Clinton demanded, coming +back to the central case again. + +Mold scratched his ear as though reflecting, then hurriedly took his +hand down again. + +“This pistol went off, sir; and the lamp-glass tinkled all over the +place. I got a start—who wouldn’t?—with the light going out, and all. +Before I could move an inch, some one got a grip of my wrists and +swung me round. He twisted my arms behind my back and I couldn’t do +anything but kick—and not much kickin’ even, or I’d have gone down on +my face.” + +“Did you manage to get home on him at all?” + +“I think I kicked him once, sir; but it was only a graze.” + +“Pity,” Sir Clinton said. “It would have always been something gained +if you’d marked him with a good bruise.” + +“Oh, there’ll be a mark, if that’s all you want, sir. But it wouldn’t +prevent him runnin’ at all.” + +“And then?” Sir Clinton brought Mold back to his story. + +“Then, almost at once when the lights went out, I heard glass +breakin’—just as if you’d heaved a stone through a window. It seemed +to me—but I couldn’t take my oath on it—as if there was two smashes, +one after t’other. I couldn’t be sure. Then there was a lot of +scufflin’ in the dark; but who did it, I couldn’t rightly say. I was +busy tryin’ to get free from the man who was holdin’ me then.” + +Sir Clinton moved over to the rifled compartment and inspected the +broken glass thoughtfully for a moment or two. + +“Are you looking for finger-marks?” asked Joan, as she came to his +side. + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“Not much use hunting for finger-marks round here. Remember how many +people must have leaned on this case at one time or other during the +evening, when they were looking at the collection before the robbery. +Finger-prints would prove nothing against any one in particular, I’m +afraid, Joan. What I’m really trying to find is some evidence +confirming Mold’s notion that he heard two smashes after the light +went out. It certainly looks as if he were right. If you look at the +way that bit of glass there is cracked, you’ll see two series of lines +in it. It might have been cracked here”—he pointed with his +finger—“first of all: long cracks radiating from a smash over in this +direction. Then there was a second blow—about here—which snapped off +the apices of the spears of glass left after the first smash. But that +really proves nothing. The same man might easily have hit the pane +twice.” + +He turned back to the keeper. + +“Can you give me an estimate, Mold, of how long it was between the two +crashes you heard?” + +Mold considered carefully before replying. + +“So far’s I can remember, Sir Clinton, it was about five seconds. But +I’ll not take my oath on it.” + +“I wish you could be surer,” said the Chief Constable. “If it really +was five seconds, it certainly looks like two separate affairs. A man +smashing glass with repeated blows wouldn’t wait five seconds between +them.” + +He scanned the broken glass again. + +“There’s a lot of jagged stuff round the edge of the hole but no +blood, so far as I can see. The fellow must have worn a thick glove if +he got his hand in there in the dark without cutting himself in the +hurry.” + +He turned back to the keeper. + +“You can go outside, Mold, and keep people off the doorstep for a +minute or two. Perhaps we shall have news of the man-hunt soon. If any +one wants to see me on business; let him in; but keep off casual +inquirers for the present.” + +Obediently Mold unlocked the door and took his stand on the threshold +outside, shutting the door behind him as he went. When he had gone, +Sir Clinton turned to Joan. + +“Were these medallions insured, do you know?” + +Fortunately, Joan was able to supply some information. + +“Maurice insured them, I know. But I’ve heard him say that he wasn’t +content with the valuation put on them by the company. It seems they +wouldn’t take his word for the value of the things—they thought it was +a speculative one or something—and in case of a loss they weren’t +prepared to go beyond a figure which Maurice thought too small.” + +“The electros weren’t insured for any great amount, I suppose?” + +Joan shook her head. + +“I don’t think they were specially insured. They were just put under +the ordinary house policy, I think. But you’d better ask Maurice. He +knows all about it.” + +Sir Clinton glanced round the room once more. + +“I doubt if there’s much more to find out here,” he concluded. “It +doesn’t give us much to go on, does it? Perhaps we’ll have better luck +when these fellows come in from their hunt. They may have some news +for us. But as things stand, we can’t even be sure whether it was two +men or two gangs that were at work. One can’t blame Mold for not +giving us better information; but what he gave us doesn’t seem to +amount to very much at present.” + +He turned, as though to leave the room; but at that moment the door +opened and Mold appeared. + +“There’s a Mr. Foss wants to see you, sir. He says he’s got something +to tell you that won’t wait. He’s been looking for you all over the +house.” + +“That’s the American, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton asked Joan in a low +voice. + +“Yes. He’s been here for a day or two, consulting with Maurice about +these medallions.” + +“Well, if he can throw any light on this business, I suppose we’d +better let him in and see what he has to say. You needn’t go, Joan. +You may as well hear his story, whatever it may be.” + +He turned to the keeper. + +“Let Mr. Foss in, Mold; and wait outside the door yourself.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Mr. Foss’s Explanation + +Mr. Foss had nothing distinctively American in his appearance, Sir +Clinton noted; and when he spoke, his accent was so faint as to be +hardly detectable. He was a stout man of about fifty, with a +clean-shaven face and more than a trace of a double chin: the kind of +man who might readily be chosen as an unofficial uncle by children. +Sir Clinton’s first glance showed him that the American was troubled +about something. + +Foss seemed surprised to find the Chief Constable in the guise of +Prospero. He himself, in preparation for an official interview, had +exchanged his masquerade costume for ordinary evening clothes. + +“We haven’t met before, Sir Clinton,” he explained, rather +unnecessarily, “but I’ve something to tell you”—his face clouded +slightly—“which I felt you ought to know before you go any further in +this business. I’ve been hunting all over the house for you; and it +was only a minute or two ago that I got directed in here.” + +“Yes?” said Sir Clinton, interrogatively. + +Foss glanced at Joan and seemed to find some difficulty in opening the +subject. + +“It’s a strictly private matter,” he explained. + +Joan refused to take the implied hint. + +“If it has any connection with this burglary, Mr. Foss, I see no +reason why I should not hear what you have to say. It’s a matter that +concerns me as one of the family, you know.” + +Foss seemed taken aback and quite evidently he would have preferred to +make his confidence to Sir Clinton alone. + +“It’s rather a difficult matter,” he said, with a feeble endeavour to +deflect Joan from her purpose. + +Joan, however, took no notice of his diffidence. + +“Come, Mr. Foss,” she said. “If it’s really important, the sooner Sir +Clinton hears of it the better. Begin.” + +Foss glanced appealingly at Sir Clinton; but apparently the Chief +Constable took Joan’s view of the matter. + +“I’m rather busy at present, Mr. Foss,” he said, dryly. “Perhaps +you’ll give us your information as concisely as possible.” + +Having failed in his attempt, Foss made the best of it; though it was +with obvious reluctance that he launched into his subject. + +“Last night after dinner,” he began, “I went into the winter-garden to +smoke a cigar. I had some business affairs which I wanted to put +straight in my mind; and I thought I could stow myself away in a +corner there and be free from interruption. So I sat down at one side +of the winter-garden behind a large clump of palms where no one was +likely to see me; and I began to think over the points I had in mind.” + +“Yes?” prompted Sir Clinton, who seemed anxious to cut Foss’s +narrative down to essentials. + +“While I was sitting there,” the American continued, “some of the +young people came into the winter-garden and sat down in a recess on +the side opposite to where I was. At first they didn’t disturb me. I +thought they’d be almost out of earshot, on the other side of the +dome. I think you were one of them, Miss Chacewater: you, and your +brother, and Miss Rainhill, and some one else whom I didn’t +recognize.” + +“I was there,” Joan confirmed, looking rather puzzled as to what might +come next. + +“You may not know, Miss Chacewater,” Foss continued, “that your +winter-garden is a sort of whispering-gallery. Although I was quite a +long way off from your party, your voices came quite clearly across to +where I was sitting. They didn’t disturb me at all—I’ve got the knack +of concentration when I’m thinking about business affairs. But +although I wasn’t listening intentionally, the whole conversation was +getting in at my ear while I was thinking about other things. I +suppose I ought to have gone away or let you know I was there; but the +fact is, I’d just got to a point where I was seeing my way through a +rather knotty tangle, and I didn’t want to break my chain of thought. +I wasn’t eavesdropping, you understand?” + +“Yes?” repeated Sir Clinton, with a slight acidity in his tone. “And +then?” + +But the American failed to take the hint. Evidently he laid great +stress on explaining exactly how things had fallen out. + +“After a while,” he went on, with an evident effort to be accurate, +“Miss Chacewater and some one else left the party.” + +“Quite true,” Joan confirmed. “We went to play billiards.” + +The American nodded. + +“When you had gone,” he continued, “some one else joined the party—a +red-haired young man whom they called Foxy.” + +Sir Clinton glanced at Joan. + +“That’s Foxton Polegate,” Joan explained. “He’s a neighbour of ours. +He made these electrotypes of the medallions for us.” + +Foss waited patiently till she had finished her interjection. Then he +resumed his narrative. + +“Shortly after that, my ear caught the sound of my own name. Naturally +my attention was attracted, quite without any intention on my part. +It’s only natural to prick up your ears when you hear your own name +mentioned.” + +He looked apologetically at them both as if asking them to condone his +conduct. + +“The next thing I heard—without listening intentionally, you +understand?—was ‘Medusa Medallions.’ Now, as you know, I’ve been sent +over here by Mr. Kessock to see if I can arrange to buy these +medallions from Mr. Chacewater. It’s my duty to my employer to get to +know all I can about them. I wouldn’t be earning my money if I spared +any trouble in the work which has been put into my hands. So when I +heard the name of the medallions mentioned, I . . . frankly, I +listened with both ears. It seemed to me my duty to Mr. Kessock to do +so.” + +He looked appealingly at their faces as though to plead for a +favourable verdict on his conduct. + +“Go on, please,” Sir Clinton requested. + +“I hardly expected you’d look on it as I do,” Foss confessed rather +shamefacedly. “Of course, it was just plain eavesdropping on my part +by that time. But I felt Mr. Kessock would have expected me to find +out all I could about these medallions. To be candid, I’d do the same +again; though I didn’t like doing it.” + +Sir Clinton seemed to feel that he had been rather discouraging. + +“I shouldn’t make too much of it, Mr. Foss. What happened next?” + +Foss’s face showed that he was at last coming to a matter of real +difficulty. + +“It’s rather unfortunate that I came to be mixed up in the thing at +all,” he said, with obvious chagrin. “I can assure you, Miss +Chacewater, that I don’t like doing it. I only made up my mind to tell +you about it because it seems to me to give a chance of hushing this +supposed burglary up quietly before there’s any talk goes round.” + +“_Supposed_ burglary,” exclaimed Joan. “What’s your idea of a real +burglary, if this sort of thing is only a supposed one?” + +She indicated the shattered show-case and the litter of glass on the +floor. + +Foss evidently decided to take the rest of his narrative in a rush. + +“I’ll tell you,” he said. “The next thing I overheard was a complete +plan for a fake burglary—a practical joke—to be carried out to-night. +The light in here was to be put out; the house-lights were to be +extinguished: and in the darkness, your brother and this Mr. Foxy +How-d’you-call-him were to get away with the medallions.” + +“Ah, Mr. Foss, now you become interesting,” Sir Clinton acknowledged. + +“I heard all the details,” Foss went on. “How Miss Rainhill was to see +to extinguishing the lights; how Mr. Chacewater was to secure the +keeper; and how meanwhile his friend was to put on a thick glove and +take the medallions out of the case there. And it seems to me that it +was a matter that interested me directly,” he added, dropping his air +of apology, “for I gathered that the whole affair was planned with +some idea of making this sale to Mr. Kessock fall through at the last +moment.” + +“Indeed?” + +Sir Clinton’s face showed that at last he saw something more clearly +than before. + +“That was the motive,” Foss continued. “Now the whole thing put me in +a most awkward position.” + +“I think I see your difficulty,” Sir Clinton assured him, with more +geniality than he had hitherto shown. + +“It was very hard to make up my mind what to do,” Foss went on. +“I’m a guest here. This was a family joke, apparently—one brother +taking a rise out of another. It was hardly for me to step in and +perhaps cause bad feelings between them. I thought the whole thing +was perhaps just talk—not meant seriously in the end. A kind of +‘how-would-we-do-it-if-we-set-about-it’ discussion, you understand.” + +Sir Clinton nodded understandingly. + +“Difficult to know what to do, in your shoes, undoubtedly.” + +Foss was obviously relieved by the Chief Constable’s comprehension. + +“I thought it over,” he continued, with a less defensive tone in his +voice, “and it seemed to me that the soundest course was to let +sleeping dogs lie—to let them lie, at any rate, until they woke up and +bit somebody. I made up my mind I’d say nothing about the matter at +all, unless something really did happen.” + +“Very judicious,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. + +“Then came to-night,” Foss resumed. “Their plan went through. I don’t +know what success they had—the house is full of all sorts of rumours. +But I heard that the Chief Constable was on the spot and was taking up +the case himself; and as soon as I heard that, I felt I ought to tell +what I knew. So I hunted you out, so as to avoid your taking any steps +before you knew just how the land lay. It’s only a practical joke and +not a crime at all. I don’t know anything about your English laws, and +I was afraid you might be taking some steps, doing something or other +that would make it impossible to stop short of the whole affair coming +out in public. I’m sure the family wouldn’t like that.” + +He glanced at Joan’s face, but evidently found nothing very +encouraging in her expression. + +“It’s been a most unfortunate position for me,” he complained. + +Sir Clinton took pity on him. + +“It was very good of you to give me these facts,” he said with more +cordiality than he had hitherto shown. “You’ve cleared up the thing +and saved us from putting our foot in it badly, perhaps. Thanks very +much for your trouble, Mr. Foss. You’ve been of great assistance.” + +His tone showed that the interview was at an end; but, tactfully, as +though to spare the obviously ruffled feelings of the American, he +accompanied him to the door. When Foss had left the room, Sir Clinton +turned back to Joan. + +“Well, Joan, what about it?” + +“Oh, it sounds accurate enough,” Joan admitted, though there was an +undercurrent of resentment in her tone. “Foss couldn’t have known what +sort of person Foxy is; and it’s as clear as daylight that Foxy was at +the bottom of this. He’s a silly ass who’s always playing practical +jokes.” + +She paused for a moment. Then relief showed itself in her voice as she +added: + +“It’s rather a blessing to know the whole affair has been just spoof, +isn’t it? You can hush it up easily enough, can’t you? Nobody need +know exactly what happened; and then we’ll be all right. If this story +comes out, all our little family bickerings will be common talk; and +one doesn’t want that. I’m not exactly proud of the way Maurice has +been treating Cecil.” + +Sir Clinton’s face showed that he understood her position; but, rather +to her surprise, he gave no verbal assurance. + +“It _is_ all right!” she demanded. + +“I think we’ll interview your friend Foxy first of all,” Sir Clinton +proposed, taking no notice of her inquiry. + +Going to the door, he gave some orders to the keeper. + +“You were rather stiff with our good Mr. Foss,” he said, turning to +Joan as he closed the door again. “What would you have done yourself, +if you’d been in his position?” + +Joan had her answer ready. + +“I suppose he couldn’t help overhearing things; but when this affair +came to light, I think if I’d been in his shoes I’d have gone to Cecil +instead of coming to us with the tale. Once Cecil found the game was +up, he’d have been able to return the medallions in some way or other, +without raising any dust.” + +“That was one way, certainly.” + +“What I object to is Foss coming to you,” Joan explained. “He didn’t +know you’re an old friend of ours. All he knew was that you were the +Chief Constable. So off he hies to you, post-haste, to give the whole +show away; when he might quite well have come to me or gone to Cecil. +I don’t like this way of doing things—no tact at all.” + +“I can’t conceive how Cecil came to take up a silly prank like this,” +said Sir Clinton. “It’s a schoolboy’s trick.” + +“You don’t know everything,” said Joan, in defence of her brother. + +“I know a good deal, Joan,” Sir Clinton retorted in a decisive tone. +“Perhaps I know more than you think about this business.” + +In a few minutes the keeper knocked at the door. + +“Well?” demanded Sir Clinton, opening it. + +“I can’t find Mr. Polegate anywhere, sir,” Mold reported. “No one’s +seen him; and he’s not in the house.” + +“He was here to-night,” Joan declared. “I recognized him when I was +dancing with him. You can’t mistake that shock of hair; and of course +his voice gave him away when he spoke.” + +Sir Clinton did not seem perturbed. + +“Bring Mr. Cecil, Mold,” he ordered, and locked the door again as the +keeper went off on his fresh errand. + +This task Mold completed in a very short time. Sir Clinton opened at +his knock and Cecil Chacewater came into the museum. He was dressed as +a Swiss admiral and behind him came Una Rainhill in the costume of +Cleopatra. + +Sir Clinton wasted no time in preliminaries. + +“I’ve sent for you, Cecil, because I want to know exactly what part +you played in this business to-night.” + +Cecil Chacewater opened his eyes in astonishment. + +“You seem to be a bit of a super-sleuth! How did you spot us so +quickly?” + +Quite obviously Cecil was not greatly perturbed at being found out, as +Sir Clinton noted with a certain relief. So far as he was concerned, +the thing had been only a prank. + +“Tell me exactly what happened after you came in here before the +lights went out,” the Chief Constable demanded in a curt tone. + +Cecil glanced at Una. Sir Clinton caught the look. + +“We know all about Miss Rainhill’s part in the affair,” he explained +bluntly. + +“Oh, in that case,” said Cecil, “there’s no particular reason why I +should keep back anything. Una, Foxy, and I planned it between us. I +take full responsibility for that. I wanted to upset this sale, if I +could. I’m not ashamed of that.” + +“I know all about that,” Sir Clinton pointed out, coldly. “What I wish +to know is exactly what happened after you came in here to steal these +medallions.” + +Cecil seemed impressed by the Chief Constable’s tone. + +“I’ll tell you, then. We’ve nothing to conceal. I came in here at +about twenty to twelve and sauntered about the room, pretending to +look at the cases as if I’d never seen them before. My part was to +mark down Mold and prevent him interfering.” + +Sir Clinton nodded to show that he knew all this. + +“Rather before I expected it, the light went out. Oh, there was a shot +fired just then. I didn’t understand that part of it, but I supposed +that Foxy had brought a pistol with him and fired a blank cartridge +just to add a touch of interest to the affair. It wasn’t on the bill +of fare, so I imagine it must have been one of these last-minute +improvements. Anyhow, I did my part of the business: jumped on Mold +and held him while Foxy got away with the stuff. Then, when he’d had +time to get away, I let Mold go and made a bee-line for the door +myself. I could swear no one spotted me in the dark, and I was well +mixed up in the mob before the lights went on again.” + +“Did you pay particular attention to what Polegate was doing while you +were busy with the keeper?” + +“No. Mold gave me all I wanted in the way of trouble.” + +“You’re sure it was Mold you got hold of? You didn’t make any +mistake?” + +Cecil reflected for a moment. + +“I don’t see how I could have gripped the wrong man. I’d marked him +down while the light was on.” + +“Can you remember anything about sounds of breaking glass?” + +Cecil pondered before replying. + +“It seemed to me that there was a lot of glass-breaking—more than I’d +expected. The light was hardly out before there was a smash and tinkle +all over the place. Foxy must have got to work quicker than I’d +allowed for. And I remember hearing quite a lot of hammering and +smashing going on after that, as if he’d found it difficult to make a +big enough hole in the glass of the case. I thought he’d bungled the +business, and it was all I could do to keep my grip on Mold long +enough to get the thing safely through.” + +Sir Clinton dismissed that part of the subject. He turned to Una. + +“Now, Miss Rainhill, I believe your part in the affair was to pull out +the main switch of the house?” + +“Yes,” Una admitted, looking rather surprised at the extent of his +knowledge. + +“Did you carry out your part of the arrangement punctually, or were +you late in getting the current off?” + +“I pulled out the switch to the very second. I had my hand on it and +my eye on my wrist-watch; and when it came to 11.45 I jerked it out +and the lights went off. I was absolutely right to a second, I’m +sure.” + +“And you thought Miss Rainhill had been a shade before her time, +Cecil?” + +“So it seemed to me. I hadn’t a chance of looking at my watch; and of +course after the lights went off I couldn’t spare time to look.” + +At this moment another knock came to the door and Foxy Polegate burst +into the museum. Sir Clinton noticed that he was masquerading as a +Harlequin. + +“Heard you’d been asking for me, Sir Clinton,” he broke out as he came +into the room. “Seems the keeper had been inquiring for me. So I came +along as soon as I heard about it.” + +He glanced inquisitively at Cecil and Una, as though wondering what +they were doing there. + +Sir Clinton wasted no words. + +“The medallions, Mr. Polegate, please.” + +Foxy made a very good pretence of astonishment at the demand; but +Cecil cut him short. + +“You may as well hand them over, Foxy. They seem to know all about the +joke.” + +“Oh, they do, do they?” Foxy exclaimed. “They seem to have been mighty +swift about it. That little joke’s gone astray, evidently.” + +He seemed completely taken aback by the exposure. + +“The medallions?” he repeated. “I’ll get ’em for you in a jiffy.” + +He walked across to the show-case, fumbled for a moment at the flat +base near one of the legs, and from below this he drew out three +medallions. + +“Stuck ’em there with plasticine as soon as I’d got ’em. After that +any one would have turned out my pockets if they’d wanted, see?” + +Sir Clinton held out his hand and took the medallions from Foxy. For a +moment or two he examined them, then he passed them to Cecil. + +“Have you any way of telling easily whether these are the real things +or the replicas?” + +Cecil inspected them one by one with minute care. + +“These are the real things,” he announced. “What else could they be?” + +“You’ve no doubt about it?” questioned Sir Clinton. + +“Not a bit,” Cecil assured him. “When Foxy made the replicas, my +father had a tiny hole—just a dot—drilled in the edge of each +electrotype so as to distinguish the real things from the sham. There +are no holes here; so these are the real Leonardos.” + +Sir Clinton swung round suddenly on Foxy. + +“Now, Mr. Polegate,” he said, sternly, “you’ve given a lot of trouble +with this silly joke of yours. I’m not concerned with your taste in +humour, or I might say a few things you wouldn’t care to hear. But you +can repair the damage to some extent if you give me a frank account of +your doings in here to-night. I want the whole story, please.” + +Foxy was evidently completely taken aback by Sir Clinton’s tone. + +“Come, we’re waiting. There’s no time to lose,” Sir Clinton said, +curtly, as Foxy seemed to hesitate. Joan and the others showed by +their faces that they could not quite understand the reason for the +Chief Constable’s asperity. + +“We planned that . . .” + +“I know all about that,” said Sir Clinton, brusquely. “Begin at the +point where you came in here at twenty to twelve or so.” + +Foxy pulled himself together. The Chief Constable’s manner was not +encouraging. + +“I came in here as arranged, and worked my way over to the central +case there—slowly, so as not to attract the keeper’s attention. One or +two other people were hanging round it then, too. I remember noticing +a chap in a white Pierrot costume alongside me. Suddenly there was a +pistol-shot and the light went out according to plan.” + +“How do you account for the pistol-shot?” demanded Sir Clinton. + +“Try next door,” said Foxy. “I thought it was a fancy tip that Cecil +had thrown in at the last moment. It wasn’t in the book of words.” + +“You were ready to get to work when the light went out?” inquired Sir +Clinton. + +Foxy considered for a moment. + +“It took me rather by surprise,” he admitted. “I’d counted on having +at least another minute, according to the time-table.” + +“What happened next? Be careful now.” + +“As soon as the light went out, I pulled on a thick pair of gloves and +got a bit of lead pipe out of my slapstick. But there was a bit of a +scuffle in the dark round the show-case, and some one must have put +their elbow through the glass. I heard it go crash in the dark. I +shoved along till I was opposite the medallion section of the +case—luckily some one made way for me just then—and I got to work with +my lead pipe. The glass smashed easily—it must have been cracked +before. So I put my hand in and groped about. I could find only three +medallions instead of six; but I hooked them out, slabbed on some +plasticine, stuck them under the case for future reference, and cut my +stick for the door. Some one was ahead of me there, and I heard some +sort of mix-up in the dark. Then I wandered out into the garden by the +east door, as soon as I could find it in the dark. And I’ve been out +there having a smoke till now. When I came in again, I heard you’d +been asking for me, so I came along.” + +Sir Clinton considered for a moment. + +“I want to be quite clear on one point,” he said with no relaxation of +his manner. “You say that you heard the glass crack before you began +your work. Are you certain of that?” + +“Quite,” said Foxy. + +“And when you got your hand into the case you could find only three +medallions?” + +“That was all. I was groping for the top row of the six; and naturally +it surprised me when I felt only three altogether. I’m quite certain +about it.” + +“So you were evidently the second thief at the case to-night?” Sir +Clinton concluded. + +Foxy flushed at the word “thief” but a glance at the face of the Chief +Constable evidently persuaded him that it would be best not to argue +on philology at that moment. He contented himself with nodding +sullenly in response to Sir Clinton’s remark. + +Joan relieved the tension. + +“Anyhow, we’ve got the medallions safe, and that’s all that really +matters,” she pointed out. “Let’s have a look at them, Cecil.” + +She took them from his hand and scrutinized them carefully. + +“Yes, these are the real Leonardos,” she affirmed, without hesitation. +“That’s all right.” + +“Quite all right,” admitted Sir Clinton, with a wry smile, “except for +one point: Why were the replicas stolen and the real things left +untouched?” + +“That certainly seems to need explaining,” Una admitted. “Can you +throw any light on it, Foxy? You’re the only one of us who was near +the case.” + +There was no hint of accusation in her tone; but Foxy seemed to read +an insinuation into her remark. + +“I haven’t got the replicas, if that’s what you mean, Una,” he +protested angrily. “I just took what was left—and it turns out to be +the real things. Whoever was ahead of me took the duds.” + +Cecil considered the point, and then appealed to Sir Clinton. + +“Doesn’t that seem to show that an outsider’s been at work—some one +who knew a certain amount about the collection, but not quite enough? +An outsider wouldn’t know we had the replicas in the case alongside +the real things. He’d just grab three medallions and think he’d got +away with it.” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“Your hypothetical outsider, Cecil, must have had a preliminary look +at the case before the lights went out—just to make sure of getting to +the right spot in the dark. Therefore he must have seen the six +medallions there; and he’d have taken the lot instead of only three, +when he had his chance.” + +“That upsets your applecart, Cecil,” said Joan. “It’s obvious Sir +Clinton’s right. Unless”—a fresh idea seemed to strike her—“unless the +thief knew of the replicas and had wrong information, so that he +imagined he was taking the Leonardos when he really was grabbing the +replicas. I mean he may have thought that the replicas were in the top +row instead of the lower one.” + +She glanced at Sir Clinton’s face to see what he thought of her +suggestion; but he betrayed nothing. + +“Wouldn’t you have taken the whole six, Joan, if you had been in his +shoes?” + +Joan had to admit that she would have made certain by snatching the +complete set. + +“There’s more in it than that,” was all that Sir Clinton could be +induced to say. + +Before any more could be said, the door opened again. This time it was +Michael Clifton who entered the museum. + +“You’ve got him, Michael?” cried Joan. “Who was he?” + +Michael shook his head. + +“He got away from us. It’s a damned mysterious business how he managed +it; but he slipped through our fingers, Joan.” + +“Well, tell us what happened—quick!” Joan ordered. “I didn’t think +you’d botch it, Michael.” + +Michael obeyed her at once and launched into an account of the +moonlight chase of the fugitive. Sir Clinton listened attentively, but +interposed no questions until Michael had finished his story. + +“Let’s have this quite clear,” the Chief Constable said, when the tale +had been completed. “You had him hemmed in at the cliff top; you heard +a splash, but there was no sign of any one swimming in the lake; you +discovered a rope tied to the balustrade and lying down the cliff-face +to the cave-mouth; he wasn’t in the cave when you looked for him +there. Is that correct?” + +“That’s how it happened.” + +“You’re sure he didn’t break back through your cordon?” + +“Certain.” + +“And you found Maurice in one of the Fairy Houses in the spinney?” + +“Yes. He seemed in a queer state.” + +Sir Clinton, glancing at Cecil’s face, was surprised to see on it the +same expression of almost malicious glee which he had surprised on the +day when they examined that very Fairy House during their walk. Quite +obviously Cecil knew something more than the Chief Constable did. + +“Does that suggest anything to you, Cecil?” he demanded point-blank. + +At the query, Cecil’s face came back to normal suddenly. + +“To me? No, why should it?” + +“I merely wondered,” said Sir Clinton, without seeming to notice +anything. + +It was clear that whatever Cecil knew, it was something which he was +not prepared to tell. + +Foxy had listened intently to Michael’s narrative, and as the Chief +Constable seemed to have come to the end of his interrogations, Foxy +put a question of his own. + +“You say Maurice was wearing a white Pierrot costume? So was the +fellow you were chasing. So was the man next me at the case when the +lights went out.” + +“I suppose you’re suggesting that Maurice is at the bottom of the +business, Foxy,” Michael replied at once. “I’ll swallow that if you’ll +answer one question. Why should a man burgle his own house?” + +“Lord alone knows,” Foxy admitted humbly. “I’ve no brain-wave on the +subject.” + +“It seems rather improbable,” observed Sir Clinton. “I think you’ll +have to produce a motive before that idea could be accepted.” + +He glanced round at the door as he spoke and added: + +“Here’s Maurice himself.” + +Maurice Chacewater had entered the room while the Chief Constable was +speaking. He had discarded his fancy costume and wore ordinary +evening-dress, against the black of which his face looked white and +drawn. He came up to the group and leaned on the show-case as if for +support. + +“So you’ve muddled it, Michael,” he commented, after a pause. “You +didn’t get your hands on the fellow, after all?” + +Dismissing Michael with almost open contempt, he turned to Sir +Clinton. + +“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?” + +“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so +far as we can see.” + +As he spoke, his glance telegraphed a warning to the rest of the +group. It seemed unnecessary that Maurice should know all the ins and +outs of the night’s doings. + +But Foxy evidently failed to grasp the meaning of the Chief +Constable’s look. + +“We saved the real medallions for you, Maurice. Vote of thanks to us, +eh?” + +“How did you manage that?” Maurice demanded, with no sign of gratitude +in his voice. + +Quite oblivious of the warning looks thrown at him by the rest of the +group, Foxy launched at once into a detailed account of the whole +practical joke and its sequel. Maurice listened frowningly to the +story. When it was completed, he made no direct comment. + +“Who’s got the medallions? You, Joan? I’ll take them.” + +When she had handed them over, he scrutinized them carefully. + +“These seem to be the Leonardo ones,” he confirmed. + +Sir Clinton interposed a question. + +“Were the medallions and the replicas in their usual places to-night, +Maurice? I mean, were the real things in the top row and the electros +down below?” + +Maurice gave a curt nod of assent. He weighed the three medallions +unconsciously in his hand for a moment, then moved over to the safe in +the wall of the museum. + +“These things will be safer under lock and key, now,” he said. + +He opened the safe, inserted the medallions, closed the safe-door with +a clang, and busied himself with the combination of the lock. + +Before saying anything further, Sir Clinton waited until Maurice had +returned to the group. + +“There’s one thing,” he said. “I shall have to look into this affair +officially now. It’s essential that things shall be left as they are. +Especially the place where that fellow gave you the slip, Clifton. +Nobody must be wandering about there, up at the spinney, until I’ve +done with the ground. There may be clues left, for all one can tell; +and we can’t run the risk of their being destroyed.” + +Maurice looked up gloomily. + +“Very well. I’ll give orders to the keepers to patrol the wood and +turn every one back. That do?” + +“So long as no one sets foot on anything beyond the wood, I’ll be +quite satisfied. But it’s important, Maurice. Impress that on your +keepers, please.” + +Maurice indicated his comprehension with a nod. + +“I’ll begin dragging the lakelet up there to-morrow morning,” Sir +Clinton added. “Something must have gone into the water to make the +splash that was heard; and perhaps we shall find it. I don’t mind any +one going down by the lake side. It’s the top of the cliff that I want +kept intact.” + +He looked at his watch. + +“You’re on the ’phone here? I must ring up the police in Hincheldene +now and make arrangements for to-morrow. Show me your ’phone, please, +Joan. And as I must get some sleep to-night, I’ll say good-bye to the +rest of you now. Come along, Ariel. Lead the way.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +What Was in the Lake + +“I was afraid of it,” Sir Clinton observed, as he lifted the dripping +pole with which he had been sounding the water of the lakelet. “The +net will be no good, Inspector. With these spikes of rock jutting up +from the bottom all over the place, you couldn’t get a clean sweep; +and if there’s anything here at all, it’s pretty sure to have lodged +in one of the cavities between the spikes.” + +It was the morning after the masked ball at Ravensthorpe. The Chief +Constable had made all his arrangements overnight, so that when he +reached the shore of the artificial lake, everything was in readiness. +The decrepit raft had been strengthened; a large net had been brought +for the purpose of dragging the pool; and several grapnels had been +procured, in case the net turned out to be useless. Sir Clinton had +gone out on the raft to sound the water and discover whether the net +could be utilized; but the results had not been encouraging. + +Inspector Armadale listened to the verdict with a rather gloomy face. + +“It’s a pity,” he commented regretfully. “Dragging with the grapnel is +a kind of hit-or-miss job, Sir Clinton; and it’ll take far longer than +working with the net.” + +Sir Clinton acquiesced with a gesture. + +“We’d better start close in under the cliff-face,” he said. “If +anything came down from the top, it can’t have gone far before it +sank. One of the people last night was watching the pool and he saw +nothing on the surface after the splash, so it ought to be somewhere +near the cave-mouth. You can pole over to the shore now, Constable; +we’ve done with this part of the business.” + +The constable obeyed the order and soon Sir Clinton rejoined the +Inspector on the bank. + +“It’s likely to be a troublesome business,” the Chief Constable +admitted as his subordinate came up. “The bottom’s very irregular and +the chances are that the grapnel will stick, two times out of three. +However, the sooner we get to work, the better.” + +He considered for a moment or two. + +“Tack a light line to the grapnel as well as the rope. Get the raft +out past the cave and let a constable pitch the grapnel in there. Then +when you’ve dragged, or if the grapnel sticks, he can pull the hook +back again with the light line and start afresh alongside the place +where he made the last cast. But it’s likely to be a slow business, as +you say.” + +The Inspector agreed and set his constables to work at once. Sir +Clinton withdrew to a little distance, sat down on a small hillock +from which he could oversee the dragging operations, and patiently +awaited the start of the search. His eyes, wandering with apparent +incuriosity over the group at the water’s edge, noted with approval +that Armadale was wasting no time. + +Having made his instructions clear, the Inspector came over to where +the Chief Constable was posted. + +“Sit down, Inspector,” Sir Clinton invited. “This may take all day, +you know, and it’s as cheap sitting as standing.” + +When the Inspector had seated himself, the Chief Constable turned to +him with a question. + +“You’ve seen to it that no one has gone up on to the terrace?” + +Inspector Armadale nodded affirmatively. + +“No one’s been up on top,” he explained, “I’d like to go and have a +look round myself; but since you were so clear about it, I haven’t +gone.” + +“Don’t go,” Sir Clinton reiterated his order. “I’ve a sound reason for +letting no one up there.” + +He glanced for a moment at the group of constables. + +“Another thing, Inspector,” he continued. “There’s no secrecy about +that matter. In fact, it might be useful if you’d let it leak out to +the public that no one has been up above there and that no one will be +allowed to go until I give the word. Spread it round, you understand?” + +Slightly mystified, apparently, the Inspector acquiesced. + +“Do you see your way through the case, Sir Clinton?” he demanded. +“You’ve given me the facts, but we’ll need a good deal more, it seems +to me.” + +Sir Clinton pulled out his cigarette-case and thoughtfully began to +smoke before answering the question. When he spoke again, his reply +was an indirect one. + +“There’s an old jurist’s saying that I always keep in mind,” he said. +“It helps to clarify one’s ideas in a case: + + Quis, quid, ubi, quibus auxiliis, cur, quomodo, quando? + +That puts our whole business into a nutshell.” He glanced at the +Inspector’s face. “Your Latin’s as feeble as my own, perhaps? There’s +an English equivalent: + + What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where, + How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share? + +How many of these questions can you answer now, offhand, Inspector? +The rest of them will tell you what you’ve still got to ferret out.” + +Inspector Armadale pulled out a notebook and pencil. + +“Would you mind repeating it, Sir Clinton? I’d see through it better +if I had it down in black and white.” + +The Chief Constable repeated the doggerel and Armadale jotted it down +under his dictation. + +“That seems fairly searching,” he admitted, re-reading it as he spoke. + +“Quite enough for present purposes. Now, Inspector, how much do you +really know? I mean, how many answers can you give? There are only +seven questions in all. Take them one by one and let’s hear your +answers.” + +“It’s a pretty stiff catechism,” said the Inspector, looking again at +his notebook. “I’ll have a try, though, if you give me time to think +over it.” + +Sir Clinton smiled at the qualification. + +“Think it over, then, Inspector,” he said. “I’ll just go and set them +to work with the dragging. They seem to be ready to make a start.” + +He rose and walked down to the group at the edge of the pool. + +“You know what’s wanted?” he asked. “Well, suppose we make a start. +Get the raft out to about ten yards or so beyond the cave-mouth and +begin by flinging the grapnel in as near the cliff-edge as you can. +Then work gradually outwards. If it sticks, try again very slightly +off the line of the last cast.” + +He watched one or two attempts which gave no result and then turned +back to the hillock again. + +“Well, Inspector?” he demanded as he sat down and turned his eyes on +the group engaged with the dragging operations. “What do you make of +it?” + +Inspector Armadale looked up from his notebook. + +“That’s a sound little rhyme,” he admitted. “It lets you see what you +don’t know and what you do know.” + +Sir Clinton suppressed a smile successfully. + +“Or what you think you know, perhaps, Inspector?” + +“Well, if you like to put it that way, sir. But some things I think +one can be sure of.” + +Sir Clinton’s face showed nothing of his views on this question. + +“Let’s begin at the beginning,” he suggested. “‘What was the crime?’” + +“That’s clear enough,” the Inspector affirmed without hesitation. +“These three electrotypes have been stolen. That’s the crime.” + +Sir Clinton seemed to be engrossed in the dragging which was going on +methodically below them. + +“You think so?” he said at length. “H’m! I’m not so sure.” + +Inspector Armadale corrected himself. + +“I meant that I’d charge the man with stealing the replicas. You +couldn’t charge him with anything else, since nothing else is missing. +At least, that’s what you told me. He wanted the real medallions, but +he didn’t pull that off.” + +Sir Clinton refused to be drawn. He resorted to one of his indirect +replies. + +“‘What was the crime?’” he repeated. “Now, I’ll put a case to you, +Inspector. Suppose that you saw two men in the distance and that you +could make out that one of them was struggling and the second man was +beating him on the head. What crime would you call that? Assault and +battery?” + +“I suppose so,” Armadale admitted. + +“But suppose, further, that when you reached them, you found the +victim dead of his injuries, what would you call the crime then?” + +“Murder, I suppose.” + +“So your view of the crime would depend upon the stage at which you +witnessed it, eh? That’s just my position in this Ravensthorpe affair. +You’ve been looking at it from yesterday’s standpoint, and you call it +a theft of three replicas. But I wonder what you’ll call it when we +know the whole of the facts.” + +The Inspector declined to follow his chief to this extent. + +“All the evidence we’ve got, so far, points to theft, sir. I’ve no +fresh data that would let me put a new name to it.” + +“Then you regard it as a completed crime which has partly failed in +its object?” + +The Inspector gave his acquiescence with a nod. + +“You think it’s something else, Sir Clinton?” he inquired. + +The Chief Constable refused to be explicit. + +“You’ve got all the evidence, Inspector. Do you really think a gang +would take the trouble to steal replicas when they could just as +easily have taken the three originals—that’s the point. The replicas +have no intrinsic value beyond the gold in them, and that can’t be +worth more than twenty or thirty pounds at the very outside. A +mediocre haul for a smart gang, isn’t it? Hardly Trade Union wages, I +should think.” + +“It seems queer at first sight, sir,” he admitted, “but I think I can +account for that all right when you come to the rest of your rhyme.” + +Sir Clinton showed his interest. + +“Then let’s go on,” he suggested. “The next question is: ‘Who did it?’ +What’s your answer to that, Inspector?” + +“To my mind, there seems to be only one possible thief.” + +Sir Clinton pricked up his ears. + +“You mean it was a single-handed job? Who was the man, then?” + +“Foxton Polegate,” asserted the Inspector. + +He watched Sir Clinton’s face narrowly as he brought out the name, but +the Chief Constable might have been wearing a mask for all the change +there was in his features as he listened to the Inspector’s +suggestion. As if he felt that he had overstepped the bounds of +prudence, Armadale added hastily: + +“I said ‘possible thief,’ sir. I don’t claim to be able to bring it +home to him yet.” + +“But you think it might even be ‘probable’ instead of only ‘possible,’ +Inspector? Let’s hear the evidence, please.” + +Inspector Armadale turned over the leaves of his notebook until he +reached some entries which he had previously made. + +“First of all, sir, Polegate must have known the value of these +medallions—the originals, I mean. Second, he learned that they would +be on show last night; and he knew where they’d be placed in the +museum. Third, it was after Polegate came by this knowledge that the +practical joke was planned. Fourth, who suggested the sham burglary? +Polegate. Then fifth, who gave himself the job of actually taking the +medallions? Polegate again. Sixth, where was Polegate immediately +after the robbery? We’ve only his own word for it that he was +strolling about, having a smoke. He might have been elsewhere, easily +enough. Seventh, he was dressed up as a Harlequin when you saw him: +but he might quite easily have slipped on a white jacket and a pair of +Pierrot’s trousers over his Harlequin costume. He could disguise +himself as a Pierrot in a couple of ticks and come out as a Harlequin +again just as quick. So he might quite well have been the man in white +that they were all busy chasing last night. Eighth, he knows the +ground thoroughly and could give strangers the slip easily enough at +the end of the chase. And, ninth, he didn’t appear when you wanted him +last night. He only turned up when he’d had plenty of time to get home +again, even if he’d been the man in white. That’s a set of nine points +that need looking into. _Prima facie_, there’s a case for suspicion, +if there’s no more. And there isn’t anything like so strong a case +against any one else, Sir Clinton.” + +“Well, let’s take the rest of the first line,” said the Chief +Constable, without offering any criticism of the Inspector’s statement +of the case. “‘When was it done, and where?’” + +“At 11.45 p.m. and in the museum,” retorted Armadale. “That’s beyond +dispute. It’s the clearest thing in the whole evidence.” + +“I should be inclined to put it at 11.44 p.m. at the latest, or +perhaps 11.43 p.m.,” said Sir Clinton, with an air of fastidiousness. + +The Inspector looked at him suspiciously, evidently feeling that he +was being laughed at for his display of accuracy. + +“I go by Miss Rainhill’s evidence,” he declared. “She was the only one +who had her eye on her watch, and she said she pulled out the switch +at 11.45 precisely.” + +“I go by the evidence of Polegate and young Chacewater,” said Sir +Clinton, with a faint parody of the Inspector’s manner. “They were +taken by surprise when the light went out, although they expected it +to be extinguished at 11.45 p.m.” + +“Oh, have it your own way, sir, if you lay any stress on the point,” +conceded the Inspector. “Make it 11.44 or 11.45; it’s all the same, so +far as I’m concerned.” + +Armadale seemed slightly ruffled by his chief’s method of approaching +the subject. Sir Clinton turned to another side of the matter. + +“I suppose you say the crime has been committed in the museum?” he +inquired. + +The Inspector looked at him suspiciously. + +“You’re trying to pull my leg, sir. Of course, it was committed in the +museum.” + +Sir Clinton’s tone became apologetic. + +“I keep forgetting that we’re not talking about the same thing, +perhaps. Of course, the theft of the replicas was committed in the +museum. We’re quite in agreement there.” + +He threw away his cigarette, selected a fresh one, and lighted it +before continuing. + +“And on that basis, I suppose there’s no mystery about the next query +in the rhyme: ‘How done?’” + +“None whatever, in my mind,” the Inspector affirmed. “Polegate could +take what he wanted, once the light was out.” + +Sir Clinton did not dispute this point. + +“Of course,” he said. “And now for the next query: ‘With what motive?’ +Where do you stand in that matter, Inspector?” + +But here Armadale evidently felt himself on sure ground. + +“Polegate’s a rackety young fool, sir. This is where local knowledge +comes in. He’s got no common sense—always playing practical jokes. +He’s been steadily muddling away the money his father left him. I +shouldn’t be surprised if he’s hard up. That’s the motive.” + +“And you think he’d steal from his oldest friends?” + +“Every man has his price,” retorted the Inspector, bluntly. “Put on +the screw hard enough in the way of temptation, and any man’ll fall +for it.” + +“Rather a hard saying that, Inspector; and perhaps a trifle too +sweeping.” Sir Clinton turned on Armadale suddenly. “What would be +_your_ price, now, if I asked you to hush up this case against young +Polegate? Put a figure on it, will you?” + +Armadale flushed angrily at the suggestion; then, seeing that he had +been trapped, he laughed awkwardly. + +“Nobody knows even their own price till it’s put on the table, Sir +Clinton,” he countered, with a certain acuteness. + +The Chief Constable turned away from the subject. + +“You’re depending on there being a fair chance of Polegate getting +away with the medallions without being suspected. But when young +Chacewater and Miss Rainhill were in the scheme as well as Polegate, +suspicion was sure to light on him when the medallions vanished. The +other two were certain to tell what they knew about the business.” + +Inspector Armadale glanced once more at his notebook in order to +refresh his memory of the rhyme. + +“That really comes under the final head: ‘Who in the deed did share?’” +he pointed out. + +“Pass along to the next caravan, then, if you wish,” Sir Clinton +suggested. “What animals have you in the final cage?” + +The Inspector seemed to deprecate his flippancy. + +“It’s been very cleverly done,” he said, seriously. “You objected that +suspicion was bound to fall on young Polegate; and so it would have +done, if he hadn’t covered his tracks so neatly. He’s set every one on +the hunt for a gang at work, or at least for an outside criminal. Now +I believe it was a one-man show from the start, worked from the +inside. Polegate planned the practical joke—that gave him his chance. +Then he forced himself forward as the fellow who was to do the actual +stealing—and that let him get his hands on the medallions while young +Chacewater held the keeper up for him. Without the hold-up of the +keeper, the thing was a wash-out. The joke helped young Polegate to +enlist innocent assistance.” + +“But still suspicion would attach to him,” Sir Clinton objected. + +“Yes, except for a false trail,” the Inspector agreed. “But he laid a +false trail. Instead of waiting for the switch to be pulled out, he +fired his shot from the bay, extinguished the light and then rushed +out of the bay and went for the medallions.” + +“Well?” said Sir Clinton in an encouraging tone. + +“When he’d smashed the glass of the case, he took out the whole six +medallions, and not merely three of them as he told you he’d done.” + +“And then?” + +“He pocketed the replicas and stuck the real things under the case +with plasticine. Then he continued the false trail by bolting out of +the house. He was the man in white. When he got clear of the people +who were chasing him, he came back to the house again, ready to play +his part as an innocent practical joker. And he had his tale ready, of +how some one was beside him at the case, wearing a Pierrot costume. +That stamped the notion of an outside gang on everybody’s mind. Both +sets of medallions had gone. He—the innocent practical joker—could +have produced the replicas from his pocket and sworn they were all +that the gang had left in the case by the time he got to it.” + +“And . . . ?” + +“And then, a few days later, he’d have managed to get into the museum +on some excuse—he’s a friend of the family—and he’d have had no +difficulty in taking the real medallions from under the case where +he’d left them. He’d have to take the chance that they’d been +overlooked. The false trail would help in that. He’d hardly expect a +close search of the museum after the man in white had got clear away. +And by running the business on these lines, he’d avoid any chance of +being caught with the stuff actually in his pocket at any time.” + +“But in that case, why did he hand over the real things to me like a +lamb as soon as I challenged him?” + +The Inspector was ready for this. + +“Because as soon as he came into the museum last night, he found that +you apparently knew everything—or a good deal more than he’d counted +on. Anyhow, he didn’t know how much you knew; and he felt he’d got +into a tight corner. He just let the whole thing slide and made up his +mind to get out before things got too hot. So he pretended that so far +as he was concerned, the practical joke was the thing; and he gave up +the real medallions and kept the replicas in his pocket.” + +“Why? He might as well have given up the lot.” + +“No,” the Inspector contradicted. “He’d got to keep the false trail +going, for otherwise there would have been awkward questions as to why +he diverged from the prearranged programme. I mean the shooting out of +the light, the lies about the man in white, and so forth. So he stuck +to the replicas and made out that there was an outsider mixed up in +the affair. But thanks to the practical joke, the outsider had missed +the real stuff; and Polegate was really the saviour of the Leonardo +set.” + +Sir Clinton seemed to be pondering over Armadale’s version of the +affair. At last he gave his own view. + +“A jury wouldn’t look at that evidence,” he pointed out. + +“I don’t suppose they would,” Armadale admitted. “But there may be +more to come yet.” + +“I expect so,” Sir Clinton agreed. + +He rose as he spoke, and, followed by the Inspector, went down to the +edge of the lakelet. + +“No luck yet?” he inquired. + +“None, sir. It’s a very difficult bottom to work a grapnel over. It +sticks three times out of four.” + +Sir Clinton watched the line of the drag which they were making. + +“It’ll take a while to cover the ground at this rate,” he commented, +noting the smallness of the area they had searched up to that moment. + +As he turned away from the water-side, he noticed Cecil Chacewater +approaching round the edge of the lakelet, and leaving the Inspector +to superintend the dragging, he walked over to meet the newcomer. As +he came near, he could see that Cecil’s face was sullen and downcast. + +“’Morning, Sir Clinton. I heard you were here, so I came across to say +good-bye before I clear out.” + +Sir Clinton could hardly pretend astonishment in view of what he knew +about the state of affairs at Ravensthorpe; but he did not conceal his +regret at the news. + +“There was a row-royal between Maurice and me this morning,” Cecil +explained, gloomily. “Of course this medallion business gave him his +chance, and he jumped in with both feet, you know. He abused me like a +fish-wife and finally gave me permission to do anything except stay at +Ravensthorpe after to-night. So I’m off.” + +“I wish you hadn’t got mixed up with that silly practical joke,” Sir +Clinton said in some concern. “I can’t forgive that young blighter for +luring you into it.” + +Cecil’s resentment against his brother was evidently too deep to let +him look on the matter from this point of view. + +“If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Any excuse +would have served his turn, you know. He’d have flung me out sooner or +later—probably sooner. I’ve felt for long enough that he was itching +to clear me off the premises. Foxy’s little show only precipitated +things. The root of the trouble was there long before.” + +“Well, it’s a sad business.” Sir Clinton saw that it was useless to +dwell on the subject. “You’re going up to town? Any address you can +give me?” + +“I’ll probably put up with a man for a day or two. He’s been inviting +me to his place once or twice lately, but I’ve never been able to fit +it in; so I may as well take him at his word now. I’ve got to look +round for something to do, you know.” + +“If you want some one to speak for you, Cecil, refer them to me when +you apply for anything. And, by the way, if you happen to run short, +you know my address. A letter will always find me.” + +Cecil thanked him rather awkwardly. + +“I hope it won’t come to that,” he wound up. “Something may turn up +sooner than one hopes.” + +Sir Clinton thought it well to change the subject again. + +“By the way, Cecil,” he asked, “do you know anything about this man +Foss? What sort of person is he?” + +It seemed an unfortunate topic. Cecil’s manner was anything but +gracious as he replied: + +“Foss? Oh, you know what sort of a fellow he is already. A damned +eavesdropper on his hosts and a beggar with a tongue hinged in the +middle so that he can talk with both ends at once. I’d like to wring +his neck for him! What do they call the breed that runs off and splits +to the police? Copper’s narks, isn’t it?” + +“It wasn’t exactly that side of him that I wanted to hear about, +Cecil. I’m quite fully acquainted with his informative temperament +already. What I want to know is the sort of man he is socially and so +forth.” + +Cecil curbed his vexation with an effort. + +“Oh, he seems to have decent enough manners—a bit Yankee, perhaps, in +some things. He must do well enough out of this agent business of his, +acting for Kessock and the like, you know. He arrived here with a big +car, a chauffeur, and a man. Except for his infernal tale-bearing, I +can’t say he’s anything out of the ordinary.” + +Sir Clinton, apparently feeling that he had struck the wrong vein in +the conversational strata, contented himself with a nod of +comprehension and let Cecil choose his own subject for the next stage +in their talk. He was somewhat surprised when it came. + +“Have you heard the latest from the village?” Cecil demanded. + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“I’ve had very little time to collect local gossip this morning, +Cecil. I’ve been busy getting things started for this bit of work in +the lake, you see.” + +“If you’d been down in Hincheldene village you could hardly have +missed it. I went down this morning to get some tobacco and I found +the whole place buzzing with it. That was before I’d seen Maurice, +luckily.” + +“Suppose you tell me what it is,” Sir Clinton suggested, drily. + +“Do you remember my telling you about the family spectre, the White +Man?” Cecil asked. “Well, it seems that the village drunkard, old +Groby, was taking a short cut through our woods last night—or rather +this morning, for he’s a bit of a late going-to-rooster—and he got the +shock of his life in one of the glades. He swears he saw the White Man +stealing about from tree to tree. By his way of it, he was near enough +to see the thing clearly—all white, even the face. What a lark!” + +“You certainly seem to take your family spectre a bit lightly, Cecil. +What’s the cream of the jest?” + +Cecil’s face took on a vindictive expression. + +“Oh, it gave me a chance of getting home on Maurice, after he’d given +me the key of the street. I told him all about it and I rubbed in the +old story. You know what I mean? The White Man never appears except +when the head of the family’s on his last legs. Maurice didn’t like it +a bit. He looked a bit squeamish over it; and I came away leaving that +sticking in his gills.” + +Sir Clinton hardly concealed his distaste for this kind of thing. + +“You flatter yourself, I expect. Maurice is hardly likely to waste any +thought over superstitions of that sort.” + +Cecil’s expression still showed a tinge of malice. + +“You’d wonder,” he said. “It’s all very well for you to sneer at these +affairs; but it looks a bit different when you yourself happen to be +the object of them, I guess. It’s easy to say ‘Superstition’ in a +high-minded way; but if there’s one per cent. chance that the +superstition’s going to hit you personally, then, you know, it rankles +a bit. Anything to give pain is my motto where Maurice is concerned.” + +Quite oblivious of Sir Clinton’s rather disgusted expression, he +laughed softly to himself for a moment or two. + +“And the funniest thing in the whole affair,” he went on, “is that I +know all about this White Man. Can’t you guess what it was?” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“Why, don’t you see?” Cecil demanded, still laughing. “What old Groby +came across must obviously have been Maurice himself in his white +Pierrot dress, coming back from the burglar-hunt! That’s what makes it +so damned funny. Fancy Maurice getting the creeps on account of +himself! It’s as good a joke as I’ve heard for a while.” + +He laughed harshly. + +“You don’t seem to see it. Well, well. Perhaps you’re right. And now I +must be getting back to the house. I’ve a lot of stuff to collect +before I go off.” + +He shook hands with Sir Clinton and moved off towards Ravensthorpe. +The Chief Constable gazed after him for a moment or two. + +“That young man’s in a most unpleasant frame of mind,” he commented to +himself. “He’s obviously quite off his normal balance when he’d make a +point of that kind of thing. I can’t say I take much stock in +brotherly love; but this is really overdoing the business. Both of +them seem to have taken leave of ordinary feelings. It’s just as well +they’re parting, perhaps.” + +Rather moodily he retraced his steps to where the Inspector was +directing the operations by the bank of the lakelet; but by the time +he reached the group his face had taken on its normal expression. + +“Fishing still poor?” he demanded, as he came up. + +“Nothing so far, sir,” the Inspector confessed. “These rocks are the +very deuce to work amongst. I’ve been running the grapnel over the +same track two or three times, just in case we miss the thing the +first shot. We’ve had no luck at all—unless you count this as a +valuable find: a bit of limestone or something like that.” + +He kicked a shapeless mass of white stone as he spoke. Sir Clinton +stooped over it: a dripping mass about the size of a man’s fist. The +Inspector watched him as he examined it; but Sir Clinton’s face +suggested neither interest nor satisfaction. + +“Might be a bit of marble that got swept over the top when they were +putting up the balustrade in the old days,” the Inspector hazarded. + +Sir Clinton looked at it again and shook his head. + +“I doubt it,” he said. “However, since it’s the only thing you’ve +fished up, you’d better keep it, Inspector. One never knows what may +be useful. I might make a paper-weight out of it as a souvenir.” + +The Inspector failed to see the point of the joke, but he laughed as +politely as he could. + +“Very well, Sir Clinton, I’ll see that it’s put aside.” + +He glanced over the Chief Constable’s shoulder. + +“Here’s Mr. Clifton coming, sir.” + +Sir Clinton turned round to find that Michael Clifton had approached +while he was engaged with the dragging operations. Leaving the group +by the bank, he walked slowly to meet the advancing figure. + +“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. Come up to see how we’re getting on, I +suppose. There’s nothing to report, I’m afraid.” + +“Drawn blank?” Michael inquired, needlessly. “There ought to be +something there, all the same.” + +“It may have been only a stone,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “You heard a +splash; that’s all we have to go on. And a stone would make that as +well as anything else.” + +“That’s true,” Michael admitted. “None of us saw the thing hit the +water, so we’ve no notion what it was like. It might have been a stone +for all we can tell. But why should the fellow pitch a brick into the +water? That’s what puzzles me.” + +Before Sir Clinton could reply, a shout came from the bank, and the +Inspector waved to them to come down. + +“We’ve got something, sir,” he called, as they drew nearer. + +Followed by Michael, Sir Clinton hurried up to the group at the +water’s edge. The Inspector was kneeling down, carefully disentangling +the grapnel from something white. At last he rose and held out his +capture. Michael gave an exclamation. + +“A white jacket!” + +A little further shaking of the material showed that it was a complete +white Pierrot costume, except for the cap and shoes. The Inspector +spread it out on the grass to dry, after holding the jacket outspread +in the air so that they could gauge its size by comparison with his +own body. + +“That’s what I’ve been hoping to get hold of, Inspector,” Sir Clinton +said. “I doubt if you’ll find much more in the pool. But perhaps you’d +better go on dragging for a while yet. Something else might turn up.” + +He examined the costume carefully; but it was quite evident that there +were no identifying marks on it. During the inspection, Michael showed +signs of impatience; and as soon as he could he unostentatiously drew +Sir Clinton away from the group. + +“Come up here, Mr. Clifton,” the Chief Constable suggested, as he +turned towards the hillock he had chosen earlier in the morning. “We +can keep an eye on things from this place.” + +He sat down and Michael, after a glance to see that they were out of +earshot of the dragging party, followed his example. + +“What do you make of that?” he demanded eagerly. + +Sir Clinton seemed to have little desire to discuss the matter. + +“Let’s be quite clear on one point before we begin,” he reminded +Michael. “I’m a Chief Constable, not a broadcasting station. My +business is to collect information, not to throw it abroad before the +proper time comes. You understand?” + +Rather dashed, Michael admitted the justice of this. + +“I’m a public servant, Mr. Clifton,” Sir Clinton pointed out, his +manner taking the edge off the directness of his remarks, “and I get +my information officially. Obviously it wouldn’t be playing the game +if I scattered that information around before the public service has +had the use of it.” + +“I see that well enough,” Michael protested. “All I asked was what +your own views are.” + +Sir Clinton smiled and there was a touch of mischief in his eye as he +replied. + +“Seeing that my conclusions are based on the evidence—at least I like +to think so, you know—they’re obviously part and parcel of my official +knowledge. Hence I don’t divulge them till the right moment comes.” + +He paused to let this sink in, then added lightly: + +“That’s a most useful principle, I find. One often makes mistakes, and +of course one never divulges them either, until the right time comes. +It’s curious, but I’ve never been able yet to satisfy myself that the +right time has come in any case of the sort.” + +Michael smiled in his turn; and Sir Clinton went on: + +“But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t draw your own conclusions and +give me the benefit of them. I’m not too proud to be helped, you +know.” + +For a moment Michael kept silence, as if considering what his next +move should be. Sir Clinton had given him what might have looked like +a snub; but Michael had acuteness enough to tell him that the matter +was one of principle with the Chief Constable and not merely a pretext +devised on the spur of the moment to suppress inconvenient curiosity. + +“It just occurred to me,” he confessed, “that there’s a possible +explanation of that thing they’ve fished up. Do you remember that I +found Maurice in the Fairy House up above there”—he indicated the +cliff-top with a gesture—“and when I left him there he was still +wearing a white costume like this one?” + +“So you told us last night,” Sir Clinton confirmed. + +“Now when Maurice turned up in the museum later on,” Michael +continued, “he was wearing ordinary evening clothes. He’d got rid of +the Pierrot dress in the meantime.” + +“That’s true,” Sir Clinton agreed. + +“Isn’t it possible,” Michael went on, “that after I left him, Maurice +got over his troubles, whatever they were, and pitched his disguise +over the edge here. This may quite well be it.” + +“Rather a rum proceeding, surely,” was Sir Clinton’s comment. “Can you +suggest any earthly reason why he should do a thing like that?” + +“I can’t,” Michael admitted, frankly. “But the whole affair last night +seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason in it; and after swallowing +the escape of that beggar we were after, I’m almost prepared for +anything in this neighbourhood. I just put the matter before you. I +can’t fake up any likely explanation to account for it.” + +Sir Clinton seemed to be reflecting before he spoke again. + +“To tell you the truth, I was rather disappointed with the result of +that drag. Quite obviously—this isn’t official information, for you +can see it with your own eyes—quite obviously that Pierrot costume +must have been wrapped round some weight or other, or it wouldn’t have +sunk to the bottom. And in the dragging the weight fell out. I could +make a guess at what the weight was; but I wish we’d fished it up. It +doesn’t matter much, really; but one likes to get everything one can.” + +Michael, unable to guess what lay behind this, kept silent in the hope +that there was more to come; but the Chief Constable swung off to a +fresh subject. + +“Did you take a careful note of the costumes of the gang who helped +you in the attempt to round the beggar up? Could you make a list of +them if it became necessary?” + +Michael considered for the best part of a minute before answering. + +“Some of them I could remember easily enough; but not all, I’m sure. +It was a bit confused, you know; and some of the crew turned up pretty +late, when all my attention was focused on the final round-up. I +really couldn’t guarantee to give you an accurate list.” + +Sir Clinton’s nod indicated approval. + +“That’s what I like,” he said. “I’d rather have a definite No than a +faked-up list that might mean nothing at all. But there’s one point +that’s really important. Did you notice, among your assistants, +anybody in white like the man you were hunting?” + +Michael apparently had no need to pause before replying. + +“No,” he said definitely, “I saw nobody of that sort. I suppose you +mean Maurice. He certainly wasn’t in the cordon when it went into the +spinney or when it came out on the terrace. I’m absolutely sure of my +ground there. But of course he may have been one of the late-comers. +Almost as soon as we got to the terrace we had to sprint off down to +the lake side, you see; and he might quite well have been a bit slow +in the chase and have reached the top only after we’d come down here.” + +“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Sir Clinton, with a finality which +prevented any angling for further information. + +Michael evidently had no desire to outstay his welcome, for in a few +minutes he rose to his feet. + +“I think I’ll go over to Ravensthorpe now,” he said. “I suppose you’re +not going to leave here for a while?” + +The words recalled to Sir Clinton the fact that he had not yet +congratulated Michael on his engagement. He hastened to repair the +oversight. + +“I was looking for you at the dance last night,” he explained, after +Michael had thanked him, “but before I got hold of you, this burglary +business cropped up, and I’ve had hardly a minute to spare since then. +By the way, if you’re going over to the house, you might tell Joan +that I shall probably have to pay them a visit shortly, but I’ll ring +up and let them know when I’m coming.” + +Michael nodded and turned away, skirting the lakelet on his way to +Ravensthorpe. Sir Clinton sauntered over to the waterside and watched +the dragging operations which were still going on. When he made his +way back to the hillock again, Inspector Armadale followed him. + +“There’s another point that occurred to me, sir,” he explained. “I +think you told me that Polegate was wearing a Harlequin’s costume last +night?” + +“That’s correct,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “And what then?” + +“One difficulty I’ve had,” the Inspector went on, “was to explain how +the fellow in white got away from them all so neatly. I think I see +now how it was done.” + +Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his interest. + +“Yes, Inspector?” + +Armadale obviously took this as complimentary. + +“This is how I figure it out, sir. Polegate had a white jacket and +Pierrot trousers on over his Harlequin costume. At the end of the +chase he bolted into the spinney and out on to the terrace above here. +That gave him a breathing-space. It took Mr. Clifton a minute or two +to organize his cordon; and during that time the thief was hidden from +them by the trees.” + +“That’s obviously true,” Sir Clinton admitted. “If he did change his +costume, it must have been at that moment.” + +“I expect he had a weight of some sort ready on the terrace,” the +Inspector continued. “When he’d stripped off his jacket and trousers, +he wrapped them round the weight and pitched them over into the pool. +That would make the splash they all heard.” + +“And after that?” + +The Inspector was evidently delighted with his idea. + +“That leaves us with Polegate in Harlequin dress on the terrace, with +a minute or two to spare before the cordon was ready to move forward +into the spinney.” + +“Admitted.” + +“Do you remember the camouflaged ships in the War, Sir Clinton?” + +“I sailed in one, if that’s what you mean.” + +“Well, you know what they were like: all sorts of cock-eyed streaks +and colours mixed up in a regular tangle to destroy their real +outlines. And what’s a Harlequin’s costume? Isn’t it the very same +thing?” + +Sir Clinton confirmed this with an historical allusion. + +“You’re quite correct, Inspector. As a matter of fact, the Harlequin’s +dress was originally designed to represent Invisibility. Nobody except +Columbine was supposed to be able to see Harlequin, you know.” + +Inspector Armadale hurried to his conclusion. + +“What was to hinder Polegate, during that breathing-space, getting +back into the spinney? It was a moonlight night. You know what the +spinney would be like under a full moon: it would be all dappled with +spots of moonlight coming through the trees. And against a setting of +that sort the Harlequin costume would be next door to invisible. He’d +only have to stand still in some chequered spot and no one would +detect him. They were all hunting for a man dressed in white. None of +them noticed him. None of them saw him, I guess.” + +Much to the Inspector’s surprise, Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“I’d be prepared to bet pretty heavily that someone saw him,” he +affirmed. + +The Inspector looked at his Chief for a moment, obviously taken aback. + +“You think some one saw him?” + +Then a flood of light from a fresh angle in his mind seemed to +illuminate the question. + +“You mean he had a confederate in the cordon? Some one who let him +through and kept it dark? I never thought of that! You had me beaten +there, Sir Clinton. And of course, now I see it, that’s the simplest +solution of the whole affair. If we can get a list of the people in +the cordon, we’ll be able to pick out the confederate before long.” + +Sir Clinton damped his enthusiasm slightly. + +“It won’t be so easy to get that list, Inspector. Remember the +confusion of the whole business: the hurry, the effect of moonlight, +the masks, the costumes, and all the rest of it. You may be able to +put a list together; but you’ll have some difficulty yourself in +believing that you’ve tracked down every possible person who was in +the line. And if you miss one . . .” + +“He may be the man, you mean? Well, there’s no harm in trying. I’ll +turn a sergeant on to gather all the news he can get.” + +“It’ll be a good test of his capacity, then, even if nothing else +comes out of it,” Sir Clinton certified, carelessly. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The Murder in the Museum + +Sir Clinton cut short the shrill ringing of his desk telephone by +picking up the receiver. + +“The Chief Constable speaking,” he informed his inquirer. + +Michael Clifton’s voice sounded over the wire. + +“Can you come up to Ravensthorpe at once, Sir Clinton, or send +Inspector Armadale? There’s a bad business here. Mr. Foss has been +murdered. I’ve taken care that no one has got off the premises; and +I’ve seen to it that his body has been left as it was found.” + +Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch. + +“I’ll drive across as soon as possible. See that things are left +undisturbed, please. And collect all the people who can give any +evidence, so that we needn’t waste time hunting for them. Good-bye.” + +He shifted the switch of his telephone and spoke again. + +“Is Inspector Armadale here just now?” he asked the constable who +answered his call. “Tell him I wish to see him in my room +immediately.” + +While waiting for Armadale, Sir Clinton had a few moments in which to +consider the information he had just received. + +“This looks like Part II of the Ravensthorpe affair,” he reflected. +“Foss’s only connection with Ravensthorpe was the business of these +Medusa Medallions. First one has the theft of the replicas; now comes +the murder of this American agent. It’s highly improbable that two +things like that could be completely independent.” + +His cogitation was interrupted by the entry of Armadale, and in a few +words Sir Clinton gave him the fresh information which had come to +hand. + +“We’ll go up there at once in my car, Inspector. Get the necessary +things together, please. Don’t forget the big camera. We may need it. +And the constable who does photography for us had better come along +also.” + +Inspector Armadale wasted no time. In a very few minutes they were on +the road. As he drove, Sir Clinton was silent; and Armadale’s attempt +to extract further information from him was a complete failure. + +“You know as much as I do, Inspector,” the Chief Constable pointed +out. “Let’s keep clear of any preconceived ideas until we see how the +land lies up yonder.” + +When they reached Ravensthorpe, they found Michael Clifton waiting for +them at the door. + +“There are only two people who seem to know anything definite about +things,” he replied to the Chief Constable’s first inquiry. “Joan’s +one of them, but she really knows nothing to speak of. The other +witness is Foss’s man—Marden’s his name. Will you have a look at the +body first of all, and then see Joan and this fellow?” + +Sir Clinton nodded his acquiescence and the party followed Michael to +the museum. Mold, the keeper, was again on guard at the door of the +room, and Sir Clinton made a gesture of recognition as he passed in, +followed by Armadale. + +A cursory glance showed Foss’s body lying in one of the bays formed by +the show-cases round the wall. The Inspector went forward, knelt down, +and held a pocket-mirror to the dead man’s lips. + +“Quite dead, sir,” he reported after a short time. + +“The police surgeon will be here shortly,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If +he’s dead, we can postpone the examination of the body for a short +time. Everything’s to be left as it is until we come back. Turn the +constable on to photograph the body’s position in case we need it, +though I don’t think we shall. Now where’s Miss Chacewater? We’d +better get her version of the affair first. Then we can question the +valet.” + +Without being acutely sensitive to atmosphere, Michael Clifton could +not help noticing a fresh characteristic which had come into the Chief +Constable’s manner. This was not the Sir Clinton with whom he was +acquainted: the old friend of the Chacewater family, with his faintly +whimsical outlook on things. Instead, Michael was now confronted by +the head of the police in the district, engaged in a piece of official +work and carrying it through in a methodical fashion, as though +nothing mattered but the end in view. + +Followed by the two officials, Michael led the way to the room where +Joan was waiting. The Chief Constable wasted no time in unnecessary +talk. In fact, he plunged straight into business in a manner which +suggested more than a touch of callousness. Only later on did Michael +realize that in this, perhaps, Sir Clinton displayed more tact than +was apparent at the moment. By his manner, he suggested that a murder +was merely an event like any other—rather uncommon, perhaps, but not a +thing which called for any particular excitement; and this almost +indifferent attitude tended to relax Joan’s overstrained nerves. + +“You didn’t see the crime actually committed, of course?” + +Joan shook her head. + +“Shall I begin at the beginning?” she asked. + +Sir Clinton, by a gesture, invited her to sit down. He took a chair +himself and pulled out a notebook. Inspector Armadale copied him in +this. Michael remained standing near Joan’s chair, as though to lend +her his moral support. + +After thinking for a moment or two, Joan began her story. + +“Some time after lunch, I was sitting on the terrace with Mr. Foss. I +forget what we were talking about—nothing of any importance. Soon +after that, Maurice came out of the house and sat down. I was +surprised to see him, for he’d arranged to play golf this afternoon. +But he’d sprained his right wrist badly after lunch, it seems, and had +’phoned to put off his match. He sat nursing his wrist, and we began +to speak of one thing and another. Then, I remember, Mr. Foss somehow +turned the talk on to some of the things we have. It was mostly about +Japanese things that they spoke; and Mr. Foss seemed chiefly +interested in some of the weapons my father had collected. I remember +they talked about a Sukesada sword we have and about the Muramasa +short sword. Mr. Foss said that he would like to see them some time. +He thought that Mr. Kessock would be interested to hear about them.” + +She broke off and seemed to be trying to remember the transitions of +the conversation. Sir Clinton waited patiently; but at last she +evidently found herself unable to recall any details of the next stage +in the talk. + +“I can’t remember how it came up. It was just general talk about +things in our collection and things Mr. Foss had seen elsewhere, but +finally they got on to the Medusa Medallions somehow. Mr. Foss was +telling Maurice how tantalizing it was to buy these things and pass +them on to collectors when he’d like to keep them for himself if only +he could afford it. Then it came out that he always took a rubbing of +all the coins and medals he came across. I remember he made some +little joke about his ‘poor man’s collection’ or something like that. +I forget exactly how it came about, but either he asked Maurice to let +him have another look at the Leonardo medallions or Maurice +volunteered to let him take rubbings there and then. I can’t recall +the exact way in which the suggestion was made. I wasn’t paying much +attention at the time.” + +She looked up to see if Sir Clinton showed any sign of annoyance at +incomplete information; but his face betrayed neither dissatisfaction +nor approval. Inspector Armadale, though following the evidence keenly +and making frequent notes, seemed to think that very little of her +information was to the point. + +“Then,” Joan went on, “I remember Mr. Foss getting up from his chair +and saying: ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the things.’ And he +went away and left Maurice and me together. I said: ‘What’s he gone +for?’ And Maurice said: ‘Some paper to take rubbings of the medallions +and some stuff he uses for that, dubbin or something.’ In a few +minutes, Mr. Foss came back again with some sheets of paper and some +black stuff in his hand. I was interested in seeing how he did his +rubbing or whatever you call it, so I went with them to the museum.” + +“And then?” Sir Clinton prompted. As they were evidently coming near +the moment of the murder in Joan’s narrative, it was clear that he +wished to leave her no time to think of the crime itself. + +“We went into the museum. Since that night of the masked ball, Maurice +has removed most of the smaller articles of value from the cases and +put them into the safe; so in order to get the medallions he had to +open the safe. It’s a combination lock, you know; and as I knew +Maurice wouldn’t like us to be at his elbow while he was setting the +combination, I took Mr. Foss under my wing and led him over to where +the Sukesada sword is hung on the wall. We looked at it for a few +moments. I remember taking it out of its sheath to show the blade to +Mr. Foss. Then I heard Maurice slamming the door of the safe; and when +we went into the bay where it is, Maurice was there with the Leonardo +medallions in his hand.” + +“One moment,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You said it was a combination +lock on the safe. Do you happen to know the combination?” + +Joan shook her head. + +“Maurice is the only one who knows that. He never told it to any of +us.” + +Sir Clinton invited her to continue. + +“Maurice handed Mr. Foss one of the medallions and Mr. Foss took it +over to the big central case—the one with the flat top. Then he began +to take a rubbing of the medallion with his paper and black stuff. He +didn’t seem quite satisfied with his first attempt, so he had a second +try at it. As we were watching him, he seemed to prick up his ears, +and then he said: ‘There’s some one calling for you, Miss Chacewater.’ +I couldn’t hear anything myself; but he explained that the voice was +pretty far off. He had extra good hearing, I remember he said. He +seemed very positive about it, so I went off to see what it was all +about.” + +“Was that the last time you saw him?” + +“Yes,” said Joan, but she had obviously more to tell. + +“And then?” + +“As I was going away from the museum door, I met Mr. Foss’s man, +Marden. He had a small brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stopped me +and asked me if I knew where Mr. Foss was. Something about the parcel, +I gathered, though I didn’t stop to listen to him. I told him Mr. Foss +was in the museum; and I went on to see if I could find who was +calling. I searched about and came across Mr. Clifton; but I didn’t +hear any one calling my name. Mr. Foss must have been mistaken.” + +“And then?” + +Michael Clifton evidently thought it unnecessary that Joan should bear +the whole burden of giving evidence. At this point he broke in. + +“Miss Chacewater and I were together in the winter-garden when I heard +a shout of ‘Murder!’ I didn’t recognize the voice at the time. I left +Miss Chacewater where she was and made my way as quick as I could +towards the voice. It came from the museum, so I hurried there. I +found Foss on the floor with a dagger of some sort in his chest. He +was gone, so far as I could see, before I came on the scene at all. +The man Marden was in the room, tying up his hand. It was bleeding +badly and he said he’d cut it on the glass of a case. I kept him under +my eye till I could get a couple of keepers; and then I rang you up at +the station.” + +“What had become of Mr. Chacewater?” Sir Clinton asked, without +showing that he attached more than a casual interest to the question. + +“That’s the puzzle,” Michael admitted. “I didn’t see him anywhere in +the museum at the moment and I’ve been hunting for him everywhere +since then: but he’s not turned up. He may have gone out into the +grounds, of course, and left Foss alone in the museum; and possibly he +had got out of earshot before the cry of ‘Murder!’ was raised by the +valet. I don’t know.” + +Sir Clinton saw that the Inspector wished to ask a question, but he +silenced him by a glance. + +“One more point, and we’re done, I think,” he said, turning to Joan. +“Can you give me a rough idea of the time when the cry of ‘Murder!’ +was raised? I mean, how long was it after you had left the museum +yourself?” + +Joan thought for a few seconds. + +“It took me three or four minutes before I came across Mr. Clifton, +and we were together—how long would you say, Michael?—before we heard +the shout?” + +“Not more than five minutes,” Michael suggested. + +“That’s about it,” Joan confirmed. “That would make it about eight or +nine minutes, roughly, between the time I left the museum and the time +we heard the shout.” + +“About that,” Michael agreed. + +Sir Clinton rose and closed his notebook. + +“That’s all you have to tell us? Everything that bears on the matter, +so far as you know?” + +Joan paused for a moment or two before replying. + +“That’s all that I can remember,” she said at last, after an evident +effort to recall any fresh details. “I can’t think of anything else +that would be of use.” + +“You’ve no idea where your brother is?” + +“None at all,” Joan answered. Then a thought seemed to strike her. +“You don’t think Maurice had anything to do with this?” she demanded, +anxiously. + +“He’ll turn up shortly to speak for himself, I’ve no doubt,” Sir +Clinton said, as though to reassure her. “Now that’s all we need just +now, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going to take Mr. Clifton away +for a few minutes, but he’ll be back again almost immediately.” + +With a reassuring smile, the Chief Constable excused himself and led +the way to the door, followed by Michael and the Inspector. As soon as +he was out of the room, he turned to Michael. + +“You’re quite sure that Mr. Chacewater wasn’t in the museum when you +reached it?” + +Michael considered carefully before replying. + +“I don’t see how he could have been. I glanced into all the bays; and +you know there isn’t cover enough for a cat in the place.” + +“Was the safe door open or shut, did you notice?” + +Michael again reflected before replying. + +“Shut, I’m almost certain.” + +Sir Clinton in his turn seemed to reflect for a moment or two. + +“We’ll have a look at this fellow Marden, now, I think, Inspector, if +you’ll bring him along to the museum. We’d better hear his tale on the +spot. It’ll save explanations about the positions of things.” + +Inspector Armadale departed on his quest while Michael and the Chief +Constable made their way to the scene of the crime. Suddenly Sir +Clinton turned and confronted Michael. + +“Have you any notion whatever as to where Maurice has gone? I want the +truth.” + +Michael was manifestly taken aback by the direct demand. + +“I haven’t a notion,” he declared. “He wasn’t in the museum when I got +there, so far as I know. You can put me on my oath over that, if you +like.” + +The Chief Constable scanned his face keenly, but made no comment on +his statement. He led the way to the museum; and they had hardly +passed through the door before Inspector Armadale returned with the +valet. + +Marden appeared to be a man of about thirty years of age. Sir Clinton +noticed that he carried himself well and did not seem to have lost his +head in the excitement of the past hour. When he spoke, it was without +any appreciable accent; and he seemed to take pains to be perfectly +clear in his evidence. Sir Clinton, by an almost imperceptible +gesture, handed over the examination of the valet to the Inspector. +Armadale pulled out his notebook once more. + +“What’s your name?” he demanded. + +“Thomas Marden.” + +“How long have you been in Mr. Foss’s service?” + +“Since he arrived here from America, about three months ago.” + +“How did he come to engage you?” + +“Advertisement.” + +“You knew nothing about him before that?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Where was he living then?” + +“At 474a Gunner’s Mansions, S.W. It’s a service flat.” + +“He still has that flat?” + +“Yes.” + +“How did he spend his time?” + +The valet seemed astonished by the question. + +“I don’t know. None of my business.” + +Inspector Armadale was not to be turned aside. + +“You must have known whether he stayed in the flat or went out +regularly at fixed times.” + +Marden seemed to see what was wanted. + +“You mean, did he go out to an office every day? No, he came and went +just when it suited him.” + +“Had he much correspondence?” + +“Letters? Just about what one might expect.” + +The Inspector looked up gloomily. So far, he had not got much to go +upon. + +“What do you mean by: ‘Just what one might expect?’” + +“He got some letters every day, sometimes one or two, sometimes half a +dozen. Just what one might expect.” + +“Have you any idea whether they were business letters or merely +private correspondence?” + +Marden seemed annoyed by the question. + +“How should I know?” he demanded, stiffly. “It’s not my business to +pry into my employer’s affairs.” + +“It’s your business to read the addresses on the envelopes to see that +the postman hasn’t left wrong letters. Did you notice nothing when you +did that? Were the addresses mainly typewritten or written by hand?” + +“He got bills and advertisements with the address typewritten—like +most of us. And one or two letters came addressed by hand.” + +“Did you notice the stamps?” + +“Some were American, of course.” + +“So it comes to this,” Inspector Armadale concluded, “he was not +carrying on a big business from the flat; most of his letters were +ordinary bills and so forth; but he had some private correspondence as +well; and part of his correspondence was with America? Why couldn’t +you tell us that straight off, instead of having it dragged out of +you?” + +The valet was quite unruffled by the Inspector’s tone. + +“I hadn’t put two and two together the way you do. They were just +letters to me. I didn’t think anything about them.” + +Inspector Armadale showed no appreciation of this indirect tribute to +his powers. + +“Had he many visitors?” + +“Not at the flat. He may have met his friends in the restaurant +downstairs for all I know.” + +“Do you remember any visitors at the flat?” + +“No.” + +The Inspector seemed to recollect something he had missed. + +“Did he get any telegrams?” + +“Yes.” + +“Frequently?” + +“Fairly often.” + +“You’ve no idea of the contents of these wires?” + +Marden obviously took offence at this. + +“You asked me before if I pried into his affairs; and I told you I +didn’t.” + +“How often did these wires arrive?” the Inspector demanded, taking no +notice of Marden’s annoyance. + +“Perhaps once or twice a week.” + +“Did he bet?” the Inspector inquired, as though it had just struck him +that the telegrams might thus be explained. + +“I know nothing about that.” + +Armadale went off on a fresh tack. + +“Did he seem to be well off for money?” + +“He paid me regularly, if that’s what you mean.” + +“He had a car and a chauffeur, hadn’t he?” + +“Yes.” + +“Were they his own or simply hired?” + +“I don’t know. Not my business.” + +“The Gunner’s Mansions flats are expensive?” + +“They get the name of it. I don’t know what he paid.” + +“You don’t seem to have had much curiosity, Marden.” + +“I’m not paid for being curious.” + +The Inspector put down his pencil and reflected for a moment or two. + +“Have you any idea of his address in America?” + +“Not my business.” + +“Did he write many letters?” + +“I couldn’t say. None of my business.” + +“You can at least say whether he gave you any to post.” + +“He didn’t.” + +“Have you anything else you can tell us about him?” + +Marden seemed to think carefully before he replied. + +“All his clothes were split new.” + +“Anything else?” + +“He carried a revolver—I mean an automatic.” + +“What size was it?” + +“About that length.” + +The valet indicated the length approximately with his hands, and +winced slightly as he moved the bandaged one. + +“H’m! A .38 or a .45,” Armadale commented. “Too big for a .22, +anyway.” + +He took up his pencil again. + +“Now come to this afternoon. Begin at lunchtime and go on.” + +Marden reflected for a moment, as though testing his memory. + +“I’d better begin before lunch. Mr. Foss came to me with a parcel in +his hand and asked me to take it over to Hincheldene post office. He +wanted it registered. He offered to let me take the car if I wished; +but I preferred to walk over. I like the fresh air.” + +“And then?” demanded the Inspector with an unconscious plagiarism of +his Chief. + +“Immediately after lunch, I set out and walked through the grounds +towards Hincheldene village. I didn’t hurry. It was a nice afternoon +for a walk. By and by I met a keeper, and he told me I couldn’t go any +farther in that direction. He’d orders to turn back any one, he said. +I talked to him for a minute or two, and explained where I was going; +and I pulled the parcel out of my pocket as a guarantee of good faith. +He didn’t know me, you see. And when I got the parcel out, I noticed +the label quite by chance.” + +“Ah, you do look at addresses after all!” interjected the Inspector. + +“Quite by chance,” Marden went on, without taking any notice of the +thrust. “And I saw that Mr. Foss had made a mistake.” + +“How did you know that,” Inspector Armadale demanded, with the air of +a cat pouncing on a mouse. “You said you’d taken no interest in his +correspondence and yet you knew this parcel was directed to a wrong +address. Curious, isn’t it?” + +Marden did not even permit himself to smile as he discomfited the +Inspector. + +“He’d left out the name of the town. An obvious oversight when he was +writing the label.” + +“Well, go on,” growled the Inspector, evidently displeased at losing +his score. + +“As soon as I saw that, I knew it was no good taking the thing to the +post office as it was. So I asked the keeper a question or two about +the shortest way to Hincheldene without getting on to the barred +ground. Then I turned and came home again, intending to ask Mr. Foss +to complete the address on the parcel.” + +“What time was it when you reached here again?” + +Marden considered for a while. + +“I couldn’t say precisely. Sometime round about half-past three or a +bit later. I didn’t look at the time.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I hunted about for Mr. Foss, but he didn’t seem to be in the house. +At last, when I was just giving it up, I met Miss Chacewater coming +away from this room, and she told me that Mr. Foss was inside. She +went away, and I came to the door. It was half-open and I could hear +voices inside: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater from the sound. I thought +they’d soon be coming out and that I’d get Mr. Foss as he passed me; +so I waited, instead of interrupting them.” + +“How long did you wait?” + +“Only a minute or two, so far as I can remember.” + +“You could hear them talking?” + +“I could hear the sound of their voices. I couldn’t hear what they +said. There’s an echo or something in this room and all I heard was +the tone they were speaking in.” + +“What sort of tone do you mean?” + +Marden paused as though searching for an adjective. + +“It seemed to me an angry tone. They raised their voices.” + +“As if they were quarrelling?” + +“Like that. And then I heard Mr. Chacewater say: ‘So that’s what +you’re after?’ Then I heard what sounded like a scuffle and a gasp. I +was taken aback, of course. Who wouldn’t be? I stood stock still with +the parcel in my hand for a moment or two. Then I got my head back and +I pushed open the door and rushed into the room.” + +“Be careful here,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “Don’t try to force your +memory. Tell us exactly what comes back into your mind.” + +Marden nodded. + +“When I got into the room here,” he went on, “the first thing I saw +was Mr. Chacewater. He had his back to me and was just turning the +corner here.” + +Marden walked across and indicated the end of the bay beyond the one +which contained the safe, the last recess in the room at the end +opposite from the door. + +“He went round this corner in a hurry. That’s the last I saw of him.” + +Marden’s face betrayed his amazement even at the recollection. + +“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Clinton. “Tell us what you did +yourself.” + +“I couldn’t see Mr. Foss at the first glance; but when I got near the +corner where I’d seen Mr. Chacewater, I saw Mr. Foss lying on the +floor. I thought he’d slipped or something; and I went over to give +him a hand up. Then I saw a big knife or a dagger through his chest +and some blood on his mouth. As I was hurrying over to his side, I +slipped on the parquet—it’s very slippery—and down I came. I put out +my hand to save myself and my fist broke the glass in one of these +cases. When I got up again, my hand was streaming with blood. It’s a +nasty gash. So I pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped it around my +hand before I did anything else. It was simply gushing with blood and +I thought of it first of all.” + +Marden held up his roughly swathed hand in proof. + +“I got to my feet again and went over to Mr. Foss. By that time he was +either dead or next door to it. He didn’t move. I didn’t touch him, +for I saw well enough he was done for. Then I went to the door and +shouted ‘Murder!’ as hard as I could. Then while I was shouting, it +struck me as queer that Mr. Chacewater had disappeared.” + +“It didn’t occur to you that he might have slipped out of the room +while your back was turned—when you were busy over Mr. Foss?” demanded +Inspector Armadale in a hostile tone. + +Marden shook his head. + +“It didn’t occur to me at all, because I knew it hadn’t happened. No +one could have got out of the room without my seeing him.” + +“Go on with your story, please,” Sir Clinton requested. + +“There’s nothing more to tell. I kept shouting ‘Murder!’ and I +searched the room here while I was doing it. I found nothing.” + +“Was the safe door closed when you saw it first?” Sir Clinton +inquired. + +“Yes, it was. I thought perhaps Mr. Chacewater might be inside, with +the door pulled to; so I tried the handle. It was locked.” + +Sir Clinton put a further inquiry. + +“You heard only two voices in the room before you burst in?” + +A new light seemed to be thrown by this question across Marden’s mind. + +“I heard only two people speaking: Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater; but of +course I couldn’t swear that only two people were in the room. That’s +what you meant, isn’t it?” + +Inspector Armadale caught the drift of the inquiry. + +“I suppose if one man can disappear in a mysterious way, there’s +nothing against two men vanishing in the same way,” he hazarded. “So +all you can really tell us is that Mr. Foss and Mr. Chacewater were +here at any rate, and possibly there were other people as well?” + +“I couldn’t swear to any one except these two,” Marden was careful to +state. + +“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Have you any idea whether Mr. +Foss came into contact with a person or persons outside the house +during his stay here? I mean people known to him before he came to +Ravensthorpe?” + +“I couldn’t say.” + +“None of your business, I suppose?” Inspector Armadale put in, with an +obvious sneer. + +“None of my business, as you say,” Marden returned, equably. “I wasn’t +engaged as a detective.” + +“Well, this question falls into your department,” Sir Clinton +intervened, as Armadale showed signs of losing his temper. “What +costume was Mr. Foss wearing on the night of the masked ball? You must +know that.” + +Marden replied without hesitation. + +“He was got up as a cow-puncher. He hired the costume from London when +he heard about the fancy dress. It was a pair of cow-boy trousers, big +heavy things with fringes on them; a leather belt with a +pistol-holster on it; a coloured shirt; a neck-cloth; and a flappy +cow-boy hat.” + +“Rather a clumsy rig-out, then?” + +Marden seemed to find difficulty in repressing a smile. + +“It was as much as he could do to walk at all, until he got accustomed +to the things. He told me it gave him a good excuse for not dancing. +He wasn’t a dancing man, he said.” + +“He carried a revolver, you say. Did you ever see any sign that he was +afraid of anything of this sort happening to him?” + +“I don’t understand. How could I know what he was afraid of or what he +wasn’t? It was none of my business.” + +Sir Clinton’s smile took the edge off Marden’s reply. + +“Oh, I think one might make a guess,” he said, “if one kept one’s eyes +open. A terrified man would give himself away somehow or other.” + +“Then either he wasn’t afraid or else I don’t keep my eyes open. I saw +nothing of the sort.” + +Sir Clinton reflected for a moment or two. He glanced at Armadale. + +“Any more questions you’d like to put? No? Then that will do, Marden. +Of course there’ll be an inquest and your evidence will be required at +it. You can stay on here until you’re needed. I’ll see Miss Chacewater +about it. But for the present you’ve given us all the help you can?” + +“Unless you’ve any more questions you want to ask,” Marden suggested. + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“No, I think I’ve got all I need for the present, thanks. I may want +you again later on, of course.” + +Marden waited for nothing further, but left the room pursued by a +slightly vindictive glance from Inspector Armadale. When he had +disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Michael Clifton. + +“Hadn’t you better go back to Joan, now? She must be rather nervous +after this shock.” + +Michael came to himself with a slight start when the Chief Constable +addressed him. Hitherto his rôle had been purely that of a spectator; +and he had been so wrapped up in it that it came as a faint surprise +to find himself directly addressed. Throughout the proceedings he had +been semi-hypnotized by the deadly matter-of-fact way in which the +police were going about their work. When he had first heard of the +murder, he had felt as though something unheard-of had invaded +Ravensthorpe. Of course murders did take place: one read about them in +the newspapers. But the idea that murder could actually be done in his +own familiar environment had come to him with more than a slight +shock. The normal course of things seemed suddenly diverted. + +But during the last ten minutes he had been a witness of the beginning +of the police investigation; and the invincible impression of +ordinariness had begun to replace the earlier nightmare quality in his +mind. Here were a couple of men going about the business as though it +were of no more tragic character than a search for a lost dog. It was +part of their work to hunt out a solution of the affair. They were no +more excited over it than a chess-player looking for the key-move in a +problem. The cool, dispassionate way in which the Chief Constable had +handled the affair seemed to strike a fresh note and to efface the +suggestions of the macabre side of things which had been Michael’s +first impression of the matter. The Dance of Death retreated gradually +into the background in the face of all the minute questionings about +letters, and visits, and parcels—these commonplace things of everyday +life. + +“If I can be of no use here,” he said, “I think I’d better go.” + +He hesitated for a moment as a fresh thought struck him. + +“By the way, how much of this is confidential?” + +Sir Clinton looked at him with an expressionless face. + +“I think I may leave that to your discretion. It’s not for +broadcasting, at any rate.” + +“What about Maurice?” Michael persisted. + +“I’d leave Maurice out of it as far as possible,” said Sir Clinton, in +obvious dismissal. “Now, Inspector, I think we’d better have a look at +the late Mr. Foss.” + +Michael retreated from the room as they turned towards the body on the +floor. + +“Leave Maurice out of it!” he thought, as he walked at a snail’s pace +towards the room where he had left Joan. “That’s a nice bit of advice! +If you leave Maurice out of it, there seems to be nothing left in it. +Now what the devil am I to say to her? If I say nothing, she’ll jump +to the worst conclusion; and if I say anything at all, she’ll jump to +the same.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +The Muramasa Sword + +As the door closed behind Michael Clifton, the Chief Constable turned +to the Inspector. + +“Now we can get to business, Inspector. Let’s have a look round the +place at leisure, and perhaps the surgeon will turn up before we reach +the body itself.” + +Followed by Armadale, he stepped over to the bay containing the corpse +of Foss and began methodically to inspect the surroundings. + +“This must have been the case that Marden slipped against when he cut +his hand,” the Inspector pointed out. “There’s a big hole in the glass +and some blood on the broken edges of the gap.” + +“Oh, yes, there’s blood enough to suit most people,” Sir Clinton +admitted, with a glance towards the shattered case. But he seemed less +interested in the glass than in the floor surface; for he moved slowly +to and fro, evidently trying to place himself so that the sunlight +from the window was reflected up to him from the parquet. After a +moment or two, he seemed satisfied. + +“That part of Marden’s story seems true enough. He did slip here. If +you come across, you’ll see a line where the polish of the parquet has +been taken off by some hard part of his shoe. You won’t be able to +spot it unless you make a mirror of the floor.” + +The Inspector in his turn moved over and satisfied himself of the +existence of the faint mark. + +“That confirms part of his story,” he admitted, grudgingly. “There’s a +lot of blood about, quite apart from the stuff from the body. One +might make something out of that.” + +“Suppose we try,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Assume that he cut his hand +here on the glass. He’d be all asprawl on the floor; and the first +thing he’d do would be to put his hands down to help himself up. That +would account for these biggish patches here, under the case. Then a +foot or so away you see those round marks of droplets with tiny +splashes radiating from them with a fair regularity all round. These +must have been made by drops falling from his hand while he stood +still—no doubt while he was feeling with the other hand for his +handkerchief to stanch the bleeding.” + +The Inspector indicated his agreement. + +“After he’d got it fixed up, one might expect him to go over and look +at Foss. He’d gone down on the floor, you remember, while he was +hurrying to Foss’s assistance.” + +“There’s no sign of that,” Armadale hastened to point out. “I can’t +see any blood-drops round about the body.” + +“Oh, don’t be in too much of a hurry, Inspector. Perhaps they fell in +the pool of Foss’s own blood or, more probably, his handkerchief +soaked up any blood that flowed just then.” + +Sir Clinton, still with his eyes on the ground, began to cast about in +search of further traces. + +“Ah, here are a couple of drops at the end of the bay. Have a look at +them, Inspector.” + +Armadale knelt down and examined the clots. + +“Made on his way to the door, probably,” he suggested. + +“They might have been, if he was swinging his arms as one does when +one walks freely; but one doesn’t usually swing the arm when there’s a +fresh wound in the hand, I think. These aren’t round blobs like the +others; they’re elongated, and all the splashing from them is at one +end—the end towards the safe. His hand, when they were made, was +moving towards the safe’s bay, whatever his body was doing.” + +Sir Clinton made a rough measurement of the distance between the two +drops. + +“If they’d been nearer together or further apart, then each of them +might have been made while his arm was going backwards in its natural +swing while he was walking towards the door. But the distance between +them won’t fit that. You’ll see at once if you try walking over the +ground yourself, Inspector; for you’re just about Marden’s height and +your stride must be nearly the same as his.” + +“He said something about going to the safe and trying the handle,” the +Inspector admitted, grudgingly. “So far, his tale’s got some support.” + +Sir Clinton smiled covertly at Armadale’s obvious desire to pick holes +in the valet’s narrative. + +“Well, let’s find out how it happened,” Sir Clinton suggested. “He +evidently passed this bay and went on towards the next one, where the +safe is. We’ll follow his example.” + +They turned the corner of the show-case and stepped over to the safe +door. + +“There’s a trace of blood on the handle, true enough,” the Inspector +admitted. “But I’m not sure he told the truth about why he came to the +safe.” + +Sir Clinton inspected the smear of blood on the handle, but he seemed +to attach very little importance to it. + +“I suppose one mustn’t jump to conclusions and assume that +everything’s all above-board,” he conceded. “But even if we keep open +minds, wouldn’t it be the most natural thing in the world for Marden +to try the safe door? Remember what had happened according to his +story. Mr. Chacewater was in the room, for Marden saw him with his own +eyes. Mr. Chacewater turned the corner of a bay—the one next this; and +then Marden lost him for good. If you’d been in Marden’s place, +wouldn’t you have searched about, and then, finding no trace of the +missing man, wouldn’t you have jumped to the conclusion that he might +be hidden in the safe? And wouldn’t you have given the handle a pull, +just to make sure the safe was really locked and that Mr. Chacewater +wasn’t hiding inside it?” + +“I suppose so,” conceded the Inspector, evidently dissatisfied. + +“I expect his tale isn’t complete, of course. He could hardly give +every detail. It would be a bit suspicious if he had, I think. If his +tale had been absolutely complete in every detail, I’d be inclined to +suspect a previously prepared recitation rather than an account of the +facts. In a case of this sort, one could hardly expect a water-tight +narrative, could one?” + +He continued his examination of the floor; but there seemed to be no +other blood-stains of any importance. + +“Now let’s have a glance at the body,” he suggested. “We needn’t shift +it till the surgeon comes; but we can see what’s to be seen without +altering its position in the meanwhile.” + +The Inspector was the first to reach the spot, and as he knelt down +beside the corpse he gave an exclamation of surprise. + +“Here’s an automatic pistol, sir. It’s lying almost under the body, +but I can see the muzzle. It looks like a .38 calibre.” + +“Leave it there. We’ll get at it later.” + +Sir Clinton examined the body itself. The cause of death seemed +obvious enough, for the weapon still remained in the wound. A glance +at it set the Chief Constable’s eye ranging over the museum cases. He +retreated from the bay and searched for a time until he found what he +was looking for: an empty sheath in an unlocked case. Without touching +the sheath, he scanned the Japanese inscription on its surface. + +“So that’s the thing?” + +The Inspector had come across to his side and stood looking at the +sheath. + +“So the thing’s one of the specimens?” he asked. + +“Yes. Don’t touch it, Inspector. We may as well see whose +finger-prints are on it, though it’s quite on the cards that it’s been +handled by other people lately as well as the murderer. It’s rather a +show specimen, you see—one of Muramasa’s making. This was the sword +they were discussing when they were out on the terrace. Muramasa’s +weapons have the name of being unlucky; and this one seems to bear out +the legend.” + +The Inspector looked at the sheath with apparent care, but his +thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. + +“Nobody could have got away from here through the windows,” he +observed, rather irrelevantly. “They’re all barred outside, and the +catches are fast on the sashes.” + +Evidently Sir Clinton had noticed this in the course of his previous +search, for he gave a tacit assent to the Inspector’s statement +without even glancing up at the windows. + +“Here are the sheets of rubbing-paper that Foss was using,” the +Inspector went on, picking them up as he spoke. “They’ll have his +finger-prints on them, so I’ll stow them away. We might need them. One +never knows.” + +“We can get actual prints from the body if we need them,” Sir Clinton +pointed out. “You don’t suppose it’s a suicide case, do you?” + +The Inspector was too wary to throw himself open to attack. He +contented himself with putting the papers away carefully in his +pocket-book. + +“Finger-prints will be useful, though,” Sir Clinton went on. “At the +earliest possible moment, Inspector, I want you to get prints from the +fingers of every one in the house. Start with Miss Chacewater. She’ll +agree to let you take hers without any trouble; and after that you can +go on to Mr. Clifton and so down the scale. We’ve no authority for +insisting, of course; but you can make a note if any one objects. I +expect you’ll get the lot without difficulty.” + +At this moment Mold opened the door to admit the police surgeon; and +Sir Clinton broke off in order to explain the state of affairs to him. +Dr. Greenlaw was a business-like person who wasted no time. While Sir +Clinton was speaking, he knelt down beside the corpse and made a +cursory examination of it. When he rose to his feet again, he seemed +satisfied. + +“That sword appears to have entered the thorax between the fifth and +sixth ribs,” he pointed out. “It’s pierced the left lung, evidently; +you notice the blood-foam on his lips? And most probably it’s +penetrated right into the heart as well. It looks as if it had; but of +course I’ll need to carry out a P.M. before I can give you exact +details.” + +“I suppose we can take out the sword before we shift the body?” asked +the Inspector. “We want to examine it before any one else touches it.” + +“Certainly,” Greenlaw replied. “You can see for yourselves what +happened. He was struck from the front by a right-handed man—a fairly +heavy blow, I should judge from the depth to which that sword has +buried itself. There’s no sign of a twist in the wound, which looks as +though he went down under it at once. Quite possibly the base of the +skull may have been fractured on the floor by the force of his fall. +We’ll see when we come to the P.M. But in any case that wound alone +would be quite sufficient to cause almost immediate death. It’s a +blade almost as broad as a bayonet, as you can see. I’ll go into the +whole thing carefully when I can make a thorough examination. You’ll +have him sent down to the mortuary, of course?” + +“As soon as we’ve finished our work here.” + +“Good. I’ll make a note or two now, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll leave +you to get on. As things are, there’s nothing there which you couldn’t +see for yourselves.” + +He took out a pocket-book and began to jot down his notes. + +“Just a moment, doctor,” Sir Clinton interposed. “I’ve got a patient +for you here. I’d like you to have a look at his hand and bandage up +some cuts before you go.” + +Greenlaw nodded in agreement and went on with his note-taking. + +“Now, Inspector,” Sir Clinton continued, “we’d better get this sword +out. Be sure to take all the care you can not to rub out any +finger-prints.” + +Armadale obeyed, and after some cautious manœuvres he succeeded in +withdrawing the weapon, which he laid carefully on the top of the +central show-case. + +“Now we can have a look at him,” Sir Clinton said. “You don’t mind our +shifting the position of the body, doctor?” + +Greenlaw closed his note-book and prepared to assist them if +necessary. + +“Begin with the contents of his pockets, Inspector,” Sir Clinton +suggested. + +“The blade’s gone clean through his left breast pocket,” the Inspector +pointed out. He felt the outside of the pocket gingerly with his +fingers. + +“Nothing there except his handkerchief, so far as I can feel. It’s all +soaked with his blood. I’ll leave that to the last. I want to keep my +hands clean while I go over the rest.” + +He wiped his finger-tips carefully on his own handkerchief and +continued his search. + +“Right-hand breast pocket: a note-case.” + +He drew it out and handed it to Sir Clinton, who opened it and counted +the contents. + +“Three hundred and fifty-seven pounds in notes,” he announced at +length. “That’s a fair sum to be carrying about with one. Ten visiting +cards: ‘J. B. Foss,’ with no address.” + +He crossed over to the central case and put down the note-case +thoughtfully. + +“The left-hand waistcoat pockets are saturated with blood,” Armadale +continued. “I’ll leave them over for the present. Top right-hand +waistcoat pocket, empty. Lower right-hand waistcoat pocket: a small +penknife and a tooth-pick. Not much blood here; he was lying slightly +on his left side and it must have flowed in that direction, I suppose. +Right-hand jacket pocket, outside: nothing. I’ll take the trousers +now. Right-hand pocket: key-ring and a purse.” + +He handed them to Sir Clinton, who examined them in turn before +putting them on the central case. + +“Only keys of suit-cases here,” the Chief Constable reported. “We +haven’t come across the latch-key of his flat, if you notice.” + +He counted the contents of the purse. + +“Eight and sixpence and one ten-shilling note.” + +The Inspector proceeded with his examination. + +“Here’s something funny! He’s got a smallish pocket over his hip, just +below the trouser button. That’s unusual. But it’s empty,” he added, +after an eager search. + +“Let me look at that,” Sir Clinton demanded. + +He stooped down and inspected the pocket closely, then stood up and +passed his hand across the corresponding spot on his own clothes. As +he did so, Armadale noticed a peculiar expression pass across the +Chief Constable’s face, as though some new idea had dawned upon him +and had cleared up a difficulty. But Sir Clinton divulged nothing of +what was passing in his mind. + +“Make quite sure it’s empty,” he said. + +Armadale turned the little pocket inside out. + +“There’s nothing there,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t hold much—it’s +hardly bigger than a ticket pocket.” + +He looked at the pocket again, evidently puzzled by the importance +which the Chief Constable attached to it. + +“It’s a silly place to have a pocket,” he said at last. “It’s not like +the old-fashioned fob. That was kept tight shut by the pressure of +your body. This thing’s mouth is loose and it’s simply a gift to a +pickpocket.” + +“I think we’ll probably find another of the same kind on the other +side,” Sir Clinton contented himself with saying. “Let’s get on with +the rest of them.” + +Armadale turned the body slightly and put his hand into the hip +pocket. + +“It’s empty, too,” he announced. “It’s a very loose pocket with no +flap on it. I expect he carried his pistol there and he had the pocket +built for easy handling of his gun.” + +He looked at the .38 automatic which had been disclosed as he turned +the body. + +“That wouldn’t have fitted into the little pocket,” he pointed out. +“The pistol’s far too big for the opening.” + +Sir Clinton nodded his agreement with this view. + +“He didn’t use it for his pistol. Now, the left-hand pockets, please. +You can wash your hands as soon as you’ve gone through them.” + +Inspector Armadale stolidly continued his investigation. + +“Left-hand breast pocket in jacket,” he announced. “Nothing but his +handkerchief, saturated with blood.” + +He handed it to Sir Clinton, who inspected it carefully before putting +it with the rest of the collection. + +“No marks on it, either initials or laundry-mark,” he said. “Evidently +been bought and used without marking.” + +“Ticket pocket, empty,” the Inspector went on, withdrawing his fingers +from it. “Top left waistcoat pocket: a self-filling Swan pen and a +metal holder for same. Lower left waistcoat pocket: an amber +cigarette-holder. Not much to go on there.” + +He turned to the trousers. + +“Left-hand trouser pocket: five coppers.” + +Handing them over, he proceeded. + +“Your notion’s quite right, sir. There’s another of these side pockets +here. But it’s empty like the other one.” + +Instead of replying, Sir Clinton gingerly picked up the automatic +pistol from the floor and placed it along with the other objects on +the central case. + +“You’d better examine that for finger-prints, Inspector,” he +suggested. “I leave you to make the arrangements about taking the body +down to the mortuary. The sooner the better. Now, doctor, we’ll get +your patient for you, if the Inspector will be good enough to bring +him to the lavatory near by, where you can get his wounds patched up.” + +Inspector Armadale soon produced Marden, who seemed rather surprised +at being summoned again. + +“It’s all right, Marden,” Sir Clinton assured him. “It merely struck +me that when there was a doctor on the premises you ought to have +these cuts of yours properly fixed up.” + +Dr. Greenlaw speedily removed the temporary bandage which the valet +had improvised. + +“I’ll need to put some stitches into this,” he said, as the extent of +the injury became evident. “Luckily these glass cuts are clean-edged. +You’ll hardly see the scar after a time.” + +Sir Clinton inspected the wounds sympathetically. + +“You’ve made a bit of a mess of your hand, Marden,” he commented. +“It’s just as well I thought of getting Dr. Greenlaw to look after +you.” + +Marden seemed to have been looking for an opening. + +“I’m glad you called me up again, sir,” he explained. “I’ve just +thought of two other points about this affair.” + +“Yes?” + +While the doctor was cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, Marden +addressed himself to the Chief Constable. + +“I forgot to say, sir, that when I got back to the house I found Mr. +Foss’s car waiting for him. I said a word or two to the chauffeur as I +passed. It only struck me afterwards that this might be important. I +forgot about it at the time.” + +“Quite right to tell us,” Sir Clinton confirmed. + +“The second thing was what the chauffeur told me. He’d been ordered to +wait for Mr. Foss, it seems; and he got the idea that Mr. Foss was +leaving Ravensthorpe this afternoon for good. I was surprised by that; +for I’d heard nothing about it from Mr. Foss.” + +He flinched slightly with the smart of his wounds, as Greenlaw washed +them carefully. + +Sir Clinton seemed to be struck by a fresh idea. + +“Before the doctor bandages you up, would you mind if we took your +finger-prints, Marden? I’m asking every one to let us take theirs, and +this seems to be the best chance we shall have of getting yours, you +see? Of course, if you object, I’ve no power to insist on it.” + +“I’ve no objections, sir. Why should I have?” + +“Then you might take impressions of the lot, Inspector,” Sir Clinton +suggested. “Don’t spend too much time over it. We must get the +bandages on this hand as quick as possible.” + +Inspector Armadale hurried away for his outfit and soon set to work to +take the valet’s finger-prints. While he was thus engaged a fresh +suggestion seemed to occur to Sir Clinton. + +“By the way, Marden, you have that parcel which Mr. Foss sent to the +post?” + +“I can give you it in a moment, sir, once the doctor has finished with +my hand.” + +“Very good. I’d like to see it.” + +The Chief Constable waited patiently until Marden’s hand was +completely bandaged; then he dispatched the valet for the parcel. When +it was forthcoming, he dismissed Marden again. The doctor took his +leave, and Armadale was left alone with Sir Clinton. + +“Now let’s see what Foss was sending off, Inspector.” + +Cutting the string, Sir Clinton unwrapped the paper and disclosed a +small cardboard box. Inside on a layer of cotton-wool, was a +wrist-watch. Further search failed to bring to light any enclosed +note. + +“I suppose he was sending it to be cleaned,” the Inspector hazarded. +“Probably he wrote a letter by the same post.” + +“Let’s have a look at it, Inspector. Be careful not to mark it with +your fingers.” + +Sir Clinton took the watch up and examined it closely. + +“It looks fairly new to need repair.” + +He held it to his ear. + +“It’s going. Not much sign of damage there.” + +“Perhaps it needed regulating,” Armadale suggested. + +“Perhaps,” Sir Clinton’s tone was noncommittal. “Take a note of the +time as compared with your own watch, Inspector; and just check +whether it’s going fast or slow in a few hours. Try it for +finger-prints along with the rest of the stuff.” + +He replaced it gently in its bed of cotton-wool and closed the box, +taking care not to finger the cardboard. + +“Now, if you’ll send for the chauffeur, we may get something from +him.” + +But the chauffeur proved a most unsatisfactory witness. He admitted +that Foss had ordered him to bring round the car at 3.15 and wait for +further orders; but he was unable to give any clear account of the +talk he had with his employer when the order was given. + +“I can’t remember what he said exactly; but I got the notion he was +leaving here to-day. I’m dead sure of that; for I packed up my own +stuff and had it ready to go off at a moment’s notice. It’s on the +grid of the car now. I was so taken aback that I haven’t thought of +unpacking it.” + +Sir Clinton could get nothing further out of the man, and he was +eventually dismissed. + +“Now we’ll have a run over the late Mr. Foss’s goods,” the Chief +Constable proposed, when they had dismissed the chauffeur. + +But the search of Foss’s bedroom yielded at first nothing of much +interest. + +“This doesn’t look as if that chauffeur had been telling the truth,” +Armadale pointed out, when they found all Foss’s clothes arranged +quite normally in wardrobe and drawers. “Foss himself had made no +preparations for moving, that’s evident. I’ll see that chauffeur again +and go into the matter more carefully.” + +“You might as well,” Sir Clinton concurred. “But I doubt if you’ll get +him to shift from his story. He seemed to be very clear about the main +point, though he was weak in details.” + +They subjected all Foss’s belongings to a careful scrutiny. + +“No name marked on any of the linen; no tags on any of the suits; no +labels inside the jacket pockets,” Inspector Armadale pointed out. “He +seems to have been very anxious not to advertise his identity. And no +papers of any sort. It looks a bit queer, doesn’t it?” + +As he spoke, he noticed a small leather case standing in a corner. + +“Hullo, here’s an attaché case. Perhaps his papers are in it.” + +He crossed over and picked up the case, but as he did so an expression +of surprise crossed his face. + +“This thing’s as heavy as lead! It must weigh ten or twelve pounds at +least!” + +“It’s not an attaché case,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Look at the ends +of it.” + +Armadale turned the case round in his hand. At the upper part of one +end the leather had been cut away, disclosing a small ebonite disc +rather more than an inch in diameter and pierced with a pattern of +tiny holes. At the opposite end of the case there were two small holes +side by side and a larger one above; and examination showed brass +sockets inside which seemed meant for the reception of plugs. + +“You’d better get his keys, Inspector. Probably the key of this thing +will be on the ring.” + +With his curiosity raised to an acute pitch, Armadale went off in +search of the key-ring; and was soon back again with it in his hand. + +“Now we’ll see what it is,” he said, as he turned the key in the +case’s lock and pressed the opening spring. + +The lifting of the lid disclosed a wooden casing fitted with a couple +of hinged doors, an open recess in which were two levers, and a hinged +metal plate, on which was an inscription. Armadale read it aloud +uncomprehendingly: + +“‘Marconi Otophone. Inst. No. S/O 1164.’ What the deuce is this?” + +Sir Clinton put out his hand and lifted the hinged metal plate, +disclosing below two wireless valves in their sockets. + +“Some wireless gadget,” the Inspector ejaculated. “Now what could he +possibly have wanted with a thing like that?” + +Sir Clinton examined the instrument with interest, then he closed the +case. + +“We’ll take this along with us, Inspector.” + +Then, with a sudden change of mind, he contradicted himself. + +“No, we’ll leave it here for the present. That will be much better.” + +Somewhat mystified by this change of intention, the Inspector agreed. +Sir Clinton’s manner did not invite questions. + +“I think we had better see Miss Chacewater again. There are one or two +questions I’d like to put to her, Inspector; and you had better be +there.” + +In a minute or two, Joan was found, with Michael Clifton in +attendance. Sir Clinton did not think it worth while to sit down. + +“Just a couple of points I want to ask about. First of all, is there +any record of the combination which opens the lock of the safe in the +museum?” + +Joan shook her head. + +“Maurice was the only one of us who knew it. My father did leave a +note of it; but I remember that Maurice destroyed that. He specially +wished to keep it to himself.” + +“Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Did Foss know, on the night of +the burglary, which of the rows contained the real medallions and +which row the replicas were in?” + +Joan reflected for a moment or two before replying. + +“He must have known. Maurice had shown him the things once at least, +if not oftener; and I know there was no secret as to which were the +real things and which were the counterfeits.” + +Sir Clinton seemed satisfied with this information. + +“One last thing,” he continued. “I suppose you could show me where +your brother keeps his correspondence. We must get hold of Kessock’s +address and notify him about Foss’s death; and there seems no way of +doing it as quick as this one. If the papers aren’t locked up, perhaps +I could see them now?” + +It appeared that the letters were available and Sir Clinton turned +them over rapidly. + +“Fifth Avenue? That’s satisfactory.” + +He put the papers back in their place. + +“There’s just one thing more. I’m going to put a constable on guard at +the door of the museum for a while—day and night for a day or two, +perhaps. You won’t mind?” + +“Certainly not. Do as you wish.” + +Sir Clinton acknowledged the permission. Then, as though struck by an +after-thought, he inquired: + +“Have you Cecil’s address?” + +Joan shook her head. + +“He said he’d let me know where he was staying, but he hasn’t written. +Perhaps he hasn’t settled down yet. He may be staying at an hotel for +a day or two.” + +“Please ring me up as soon as he sends word.” + +Joan promised to do this, and Sir Clinton continued: + +“By the way, Inspector Armadale wishes to take the finger-prints of +every one in the house. Would you mind setting an example and having +yours taken along with the rest? If you do it, then it will be easier +for us to get the others. They won’t be suspicious when they hear that +it’s a general inquisition.” + +Both Joan and Michael consented without ado. + +“The Inspector will be with you in a moment or two,” Sir Clinton said, +as he took his leave. “Just a word with you, Inspector.” + +Armadale followed him from the room. + +“Now, Inspector, there’s a lot for you to do yet. First of all, get +these finger-prints. Then telephone to London and get Kessock’s +business address. As soon as you get it, let me know.” + +“But you got his address from the correspondence, sir, surely. It’s in +Fifth Avenue.” + +“I want his other address—his office in New York, you understand?” + +“His office will be shut by now, if you’re going to cable,” the +Inspector pointed out, thoughtlessly. + +“No, it won’t. You forget that their time is some hours behind ours. +We’ll catch him in office hours if you hurry. Then when you’ve done +that, get Foss’s face photographed; and arrange for a constable and +reliefs to be posted at the museum door till further orders. The +museum door is to be left open and the light is to be left burning at +night, so that he can keep his eye on things.” + +Inspector Armadale jotted some notes in his pocket-book. As he closed +this, he seemed to think of something. + +“There’s just one thing, sir. You want to get into the safe? Couldn’t +we get the number of the lock combination from the makers? They must +know it.” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“Unfortunately the safe has no maker’s name-plate on it, Inspector. I +looked at the time we examined it. It’s a fairly old pattern, though, +I noticed; and if it hasn’t got a balanced fence arbour, I think I can +guarantee to find the combination of it with a little assistance.” + +Armadale looked rather blank. + +“I thought these things were too stiff to tackle,” he said. + +Sir Clinton suppressed a smile. + +“You ought to read Edgar Allan Poe, Inspector. ‘Human ingenuity cannot +concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve,’ was a dictum +of his. If I’m not mistaken about that safe, I think I could guarantee +to open it in less than ten minutes. The resources of science, and all +that, you know. But I think it would be better to wait a while and see +if Mr. Chacewater turns up to open it for us himself.” + +“But perhaps Mr. Chacewater’s body is inside it now,” the Inspector +suggested. “There may have been a double murder, for all we know.” + +“In that case, we shall find him when we open it,” Sir Clinton assured +him lightly. “If he’s inside, he’ll hardly be likely to shift his +quarters.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +The Shot in the Clearing + +When Sir Clinton reached his office on the morning after the murder at +Ravensthorpe, he found Inspector Armadale awaiting him with a number +of exhibits. + +“I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained. +“I thought you might care to look at some of the things again, +although you’ve seen them already.” + +“That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of +them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the +finger-prints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.” + +“They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,” +the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my +mind.” + +“Then let’s start with the finger-prints,” the Chief Constable +proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.” + +Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel. + +“I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed +them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.” + +“You took Foss’s, I suppose?” + +“Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.” + +“That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate. +“How did you manage to make sure they were his?” + +“I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades. +He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb, either on the +blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very +sharp; but there are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.” + +He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton; +then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print. + +“This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the +finger-prints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s +the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion +print—“is Foss’s thumb-print; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost +at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re +identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except +Foss’s on the pistol.” + +“Good,” said Sir Clinton. “‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know +where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.” + +“I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully +loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but +it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.” + +“Now for the next pair of prints,” Sir Clinton suggested. + +“This represents the thumb-print from the sword, or whatever you call +it,” said the Inspector. “Also prints of the two middle fingers of the +right hand, found on the weapon. The second print of the pair shows +identical finger-prints from a different source. The thumb-prints in +the two cases are not exactly alike, because you get only the edge of +the thumb marked in the grip of a sword, whereas the other specimen +gives a full imprint. But I think you’ll find they’re the same. I’ve +measured them, too. You can see that the thumb pattern is a loop type, +quite different from Foss’s prints; and there’s a trace of a tiny scar +at the edge of the thumb in both these prints. I’d like you to compare +them carefully, sir.” + +Sir Clinton took up the two prints and scanned them with care, +comparing the images point by point. + +“There’s no mistake possible,” he said. “The two sets are identical, +so far as I can see; and the scar on the thumb is a clinching bit of +evidence.” + +“You admit they’re from the same hand?” asked the Inspector, with a +peculiar look at Sir Clinton. + +“Undoubtedly. Now whose are the second set?” + +The Inspector continued to look at his superior with something out of +the common in his expression. + +“The second set of prints came from Maurice Chacewater’s razors,” he +said. + +The Chief Constable’s lips set tightly and a touch of grimness showed +in his face. + +“I see we shall have to be quite clear about this, Inspector,” he +said, bluntly. “By the look of you, you seemed to think I’d be taken +aback by this evidence, because Mr. Chacewater is a friend of mine. I +was taken aback—naturally enough. But if you think it’s going to make +any difference to the conduct of this case—and I seemed to see +something of the sort in your face—you can put that out of your mind +once for all. The business of the police is to get hold of the +murderer, whoever he may be. Friendship doesn’t come into these +affairs, Inspector. So kindly don’t suspect me of anything of that +kind in future. You know what I mean; I needn’t put it into words.” + +Without giving Armadale time for reply, he picked up the last print. + +“What’s this?” + +“It’s the set of prints I took from the valet’s fingers,” the +Inspector hastened to explain. “It corresponds to nothing I’ve found +anywhere else. You can see it’s a whorl type on the thumb.” + +Sir Clinton examined the print for a moment or two, then put it down. + +“What about the box and the wrist-watch?” he asked. + +Inspector Armadale’s face showed that here he was puzzled. + +“There’s nothing on either of them—not a recent mark of any +description. And yet the man who packed them up must have fingered +both things.” + +“With gloves on, evidently.” + +“But why gloves?” the Inspector demanded. + +“Why gloves?” Sir Clinton echoed, rather sarcastically. “To avoid +leaving finger-prints, of course. That’s obvious.” + +“But why avoid leaving finger-prints on a thing that you’re sending to +a jeweller for repair?” + +“Think it over, Inspector. I won’t insult you by telling you my +solution. Let’s take another point. Have you the watch itself here?” + +The Inspector produced it and handed it over. Sir Clinton took out a +pocket-knife and opened the back of the case. + +“No use,” he announced, after examining the back cover carefully. +“It’s never been repaired. There are no reference marks scratched on +the inside of the back as there usually are when a watch has gone back +to the watch-makers. If there had been, we might have found out +something about Foss in that way, by getting hold of the watch-makers. +By the way, have you timed this thing as I asked you to do?” + +“It’s running on time,” Armadale answered. “It hasn’t varied a rap in +the last twelve hours.” + +“A practically new watch; running to time; never needed repair so far; +dispatched by post with no finger-marks of the dispatcher: surely you +can see what that means?” + +Inspector Armadale shook his head. + +“It might be a secret message,” he hazarded, though without much +confidence. “I mean a prearranged code.” + +“So it might,” Sir Clinton agreed. “The only thing against that in my +mind is that I’m perfectly sure that it wasn’t.” + +Armadale looked sulky. + +“I’m hardly clever enough to follow you, sir, I’m afraid.” + +Sir Clinton’s expression grew momentarily stern; but the shade passed +from his face almost instantly. + +“This is one of these cases, Inspector, where I think that two heads +are better than one. Now if I tell you what’s in my mind, it might +tempt you to look at things exactly as I do; and then we’d have lost +the advantage of having two brains at work on the business +independently. We’re more likely to be usefully employed if we pool +the facts and keep our interpretations separate from each other.” + +The tone of the Chief Constable’s voice went a good way towards +soothing the Inspector’s ruffled feelings, the more so since he saw +the weight of Sir Clinton’s reasoning. + +“I’m sorry, sir. I quite see your point now.” + +Sir Clinton had the knack of leaving no ill-feelings in his +subordinates. By an almost imperceptible change of manner, he +dismissed the whole matter and restored cordiality again. + +“Let’s get back to the pure facts, Inspector. Each of us must look at +them in his own way; but we can at least examine some of them without +biasing each other. Did you get any more information out of that +chauffeur?” + +Inspector Armadale seemed glad enough to forget the slight friction +between himself and his Chief, as the tone of his voice showed when he +replied. + +“I could get nothing out of him at all, sir. He seems a stupid sort of +fellow. But it was quite clear that somehow or other he’d picked up +the idea that Foss meant to leave Ravensthorpe for good yesterday +afternoon. He stuck to that definitely; and the packing up of his +traps shows that he believed it.” + +“We can take it, then, that Foss gave reason for the man thinking that +he was going away. Put your own interpretation on that, Inspector; but +you needn’t tell me what you make of it.” + +The Inspector’s smile showed that ill-feeling had gone. + +“Very well, Sir Clinton. And I’ll admit that I had my suspicions of +the valet. He seems to have a clear bill now in the matter of the +finger-prints on the weapon. Perhaps I was a bit rough on the man; but +he annoyed me—a cheeky fellow.” + +“Oh, don’t let’s use hard words about him,” Sir Clinton suggested +chaffingly. “Let’s call him cool, simply.” + +“Well, his finger-prints weren’t on the handle of the sword, anyhow,” +the Inspector admitted. + +“I hardly expected them to be,” was all the comment Sir Clinton saw +fit to make. “Now what about friend Foss? By the way, I don’t mind +saying that I still think these two affairs at Ravensthorpe are +interconnected. And one thing’s clear at any rate: Foss wasn’t the man +in white. You remember he was wearing a cow-boy costume according to +the valet’s evidence; and we found that costume in his wardrobe, which +confirms Marden.” + +The Inspector seemed to be taking a leaf out of Sir Clinton’s book. He +refrained from either acquiescing in or contradicting the Chief +Constable’s statement that the two cases were linked. + +“Foss had more ready money in his pocket than most people carry; he +was in a position to clear out of Ravensthorpe at any moment without +needing to go back to his flat or even to a bank. I think these facts +are plain enough,” he pointed out. “And they fit in with the +chauffeur’s evidence, such as it is.” + +“And he had no latch-key of his flat with him,” Sir Clinton +supplemented. “Of course it was a service flat and he may have left +the key behind him instead of carrying it with him. One could find +that out if it were worth while.” + +“There’s a good deal that needs explaining about Foss,” the Inspector +observed. “I’ve got his photograph here, taken from the body +yesterday.” + +He produced it as he spoke. + +“Send a copy to Scotland Yard, Inspector, please, and ask if they have +any information about him. Considering everything, it’s quite likely +we might learn something. You might send his finger-prints also, to +see if they have them indexed there.” + +“I’ll send Marden’s too, when I’m at it,” the Inspector volunteered, +“and the chauffeur’s. We might as well be complete when we’re at it.” + +Sir Clinton indicated his agreement without saying anything. He +changed the subject when he next spoke. + +“We’ve agreed to pool the facts, Inspector, and I’ve got a +contribution—two contributions in fact—towards the common stock. +Here’s the first.” + +He laid a telegraph form on the desk before Armadale, and the +Inspector read the wording: + + Have no agent named Foss am not negotiating for Leonardo medallions. + Kessock. + +“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!” ejaculated the Inspector. “It was +obvious that there was something fishy; but I hadn’t imagined it was +as fishy as all that. Kessock knows nothing about him, then?” + +“My cable was fairly explicit. It’s clear that friend Foss had no +authority from Kessock.” + +“But what about all that correspondence between Maurice Chacewater and +Kessock that we saw?” + +“Forgeries, so far as the Kessock letters were concerned, obviously. +One of Kessock’s household must have been in league with Foss and +intercepted Maurice Chacewater’s letters. Then replies were forged and +dispatched. I’ve cabled Kessock about it this morning, so as to get +the news in at once. The confederate may hear of Foss’s murder through +the newspapers in four or five days when our papers get across there. +He might bolt when he got the news. I’ve given Kessock a chance to +forestall that if he wants to.” + +“That puts a new light on things, certainly,” Armadale said when he +had considered the new facts. “Foss was a wrong ’un masquerading here +for some purpose or other—the medallions, probably. That fits in with +all the unmarked linen and the rest of it. But why was he murdered?” + +Sir Clinton disregarded the question. + +“I’ve got another fact to contribute,” he went on. “You remember that +Marconi Otophone in Foss’s room? I’ve made some inquiries about it. +It’s a thing they make for the use of deaf people—a modern substitute +for the ear-trumpet.” + +The Inspector made a gesture of bewilderment. + +“But Foss wasn’t deaf! He admitted to you that he had good enough +hearing, when he was telling you about overhearing Foxton Polegate in +the winter-garden.” + +“That’s quite true,” Sir Clinton rejoined. “But he evidently needed an +Otophone for all that.” + +The Inspector pondered for a few moments before speaking. + +“It beats me,” he said at last. + +Sir Clinton dismissed the subject without further discussion. + +“Now what about Maurice Chacewater?” he inquired. “There’s no great +difficulty in suggesting _how_ he disappeared from the museum. It’s +common talk hereabout that Ravensthorpe has secret passages; and one +of them may end up in the wall of the museum.” + +It was the turn of Armadale to contribute a fresh fact. + +“He didn’t appear at any local station yesterday or this morning; and +he didn’t use a motor of any sort that I’ve been able to trace. I’ve +had men on that job and it’s been thoroughly done.” + +“Congratulations, Inspector.” + +“If he hasn’t got away, then he must be somewhere in the neighborhood +still.” + +“I should say that was indisputable, if not certain,” commented Sir +Clinton, with a return of his faintly chaffing manner. “A man can only +be in one place at once, if you follow me. And if he’s not there, then +he must be here.” + +“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired +Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere +around. It’s what any one might do if they found themselves up to the +hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter, +and got into a panic over it.” + +Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence. + +“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be +at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to +take charge of things up there.” + +“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?” + +“Not yet.” + +Sir Clinton put the subject aside. + +“Now, Inspector, let me remind you of what’s wanted: + + What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where, + How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share? + +You put it down as murder?” + +“Or manslaughter,” corrected Armadale. “And we know When, How, and +Where, at any rate.” + +“Do we?” Sir Clinton rejoined. “Speak for yourself. I’m not so sure +about When and Where yet, and How is still a dark mystery so far as +I’m concerned. I mean,” he added, “so far as legal proof goes.” + +The Inspector was about to say something further when a knock at the +door was heard and a constable appeared in answer to Sir Clinton’s +summons. + +“The Ravensthorpe head keeper wants to see you, Sir Clinton, if you +can spare him a moment. He says it’s important.” + +The Chief Constable ordered the keeper to be admitted. + +“Well, Mold, what’s your trouble?” he inquired, when the man appeared. + +“It’s this way, Sir Clinton,” Mold began. “Seein’ the queer sort o’ +things we’ve seen lately, it seemed to me that maybe another queer +thing that’s happened might be important. So I thought it over, and I +made bold to come and tell you about it.” + +He seemed to lose confidence a little at this point; but Sir Clinton +encouraged him by a show of interest. + +“Last night,” he went on, “I was goin’ through the wood at the back o’ +the house—about eleven o’clock it was, as near as I can make it. At +the back o’ the house there’s a strip of woodland, then a little bit +of a clearin’, and then the rest of the wood. I’d come out o’ the +bigger bit o’ the wood and got most o’ the way across the clearin’ +when it happened. I can tell you just where it was, for I was passin’ +the old ruin there—the Knight’s Tower they call it.” + +He paused for a moment or two, evidently finding continuous narrative +rather a strain. + +“The moon was well up by that time. It’s just past the full these +days; and the place was as clear as day. Everythin’ was quiet, except +an old owl that lives in a hollow tree up by there. I could hear the +swish of my feet in the grass and mighty little else; for the grass +was dewy and made a lot o’ noise with my stepping through it. Well, as +I was goin’ along, all of a sudden I heard a shot. It sounded close by +me; an’ I turned at once. There’s a poachin’ chap that’s given me a +lot o’ trouble, an’ I didn’t put it past him to think he might be +tryin’ to give me a scare. But when I turned round there was nothin’ +to be seen. There was nothin’ there at all; an’ yet that shot had come +from quite close by.” + +“Did it sound like the report of a shot-gun?” Sir Clinton asked. + +Mold seemed to be in a difficulty. + +“Shot-gun sounds I know fairly well. ’T weren’t from a shot-gun. More +like a pistol-shot it sounded, when I’d had time to think over it. An’ +yet it weren’t altogether like a pistol-shot, neither. That’s a sharp +sound. This was more booming-like, if you understand me.” + +“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it yet, Mold,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I +know how difficult it is to describe sounds, though. Have another try. +Did it remind you of anything?” + +A light seemed to flicker for a moment in Mold’s memory. + +“I know!” he exclaimed. “It was like this. I’ve got it! Did you ever +stand at the door of our Morris-tube range in the village while there +was firin’ goin’ on inside? Well, this was somethin’ like that, only +more so. I mean as if they’d fired somethin’ a bit heavier than a +miniature rifle. That’s it! That’s just how it sounded.” + +He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt +simile. + +“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded. + +“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a +shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to +account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of +that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story +about lately . . .” + +Sir Clinton pricked up his ears. + +“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us +what you did at that moment.” + +“Well, sir, I searched about. The moon was clear of clouds and the +place was just an open glade. The shot had come from quite near by, as +I said. But when I hunted I could find nothing. There wasn’t a track +in the dew on the grass. My own tracks showed up in the moonlight as +clear as clear. There wasn’t any one hiding in the old ruin; I went +through and around it twice. There wasn’t a sound; for the shot had +frightened the owl. I found nothing. And yet I’d take my oath that +shot was fired not more than ten or a dozen yards away from me.” + +“Did you hear any whistle of shot or a bullet?” + +“No, sir.” + +“H’m! That’s the whole story? Now, tell us about this Black Man you +mentioned.” + +Mold seemed rather ashamed. + +“Oh, that’s just child’s chatter, Sir Clinton. I oughtn’t to have +mentioned it.” + +“I’m quite willing to listen to ‘child’s chatter,’ Mold, if it happens +to be unusual.” + +Mold evidently decided to take the plunge, though obviously he +regretted having mentioned the matter at all. + +“This Jennie Hitchin’s a child that lives with her grandmother on the +estate. The girl’s there at night in case anything goes wrong with the +old woman. Old Mrs. Hitchin was taken ill one night lately, about the +middle of the night. Pretty bad she seemed; and Jennie had to dress +and go off for the doctor in a hurry. That took her through the +woods—it’s a short cut that way and the moonlight was bright. An’ as +she was goin’ along . . .” + +“What night was this,” Sir Clinton interrupted. + +The keeper thought for a moment or two. + +“Now I come to think of it,” he said, “’t was the night of that +robbery up at Ravensthorpe. So it was. An’ as Jennie was goin’ along +through the woods she saw—so she says—a Black Man slippin’ about from +tree to tree.” + +“A man in dark clothes?” + +“No, sir. If I understood rightly, ’t was a black man. I mean a naked +man with a black skin, black all over.” + +“Did he molest the child?” + +“No, sir. He seemed to be tryin’ to keep out of her road if anythin’. +But o’ course it gave her a start. She took and ran—and small blame to +her, I think. She’s only eleven or so, an’ it gave her a dreadful +fright. An’ of course next day this tale was all over the +country-side. I wonder if you didn’t hear it yourself, sir.” + +“It’s news to me, Mold, I’m afraid. Even the police can’t know +everything, you see. Now before you go I want something more from you. +That night when you were on guard in the museum, you remember. Do you +recall seeing any one there at any time during the evening dressed in +cow-boy clothes? You know, the kind of thing in the Wild West films.” + +Mold pondered for a time, evidently racking his memory. + +“No, sir. I remember nobody like that. I think I’d have recalled it if +I had. I’m rather keen on films about cow-boys myself, and if I’d seen +a cow-boy I’d have had a good look at him, just out o’ curiosity.” + +Sir Clinton had apparently got all he needed from Mold just then; and +he sent him away quite reassured that his visit had not been wasted. + +“What do you make of all that, Inspector?” he inquired with a faintly +quizzical expression on his face, as soon as the door had closed +behind the keeper. + +Armadale shook his head. Then, seeing a chance of scoring, he smiled +openly. + +“I was to keep my ideas to myself, you remember, Sir Clinton.” + +The Chief Constable gave him smile for smile. + +“That arrangement must be especially useful when you’ve no ideas at +all, Inspector.” + +Armadale took the thrust with good humour. + +“Give me time to think, Sir Clinton. You know I’ve only a slow mind, +and perhaps this isn’t one of my bright days.” + +Before Sir Clinton could retort the desk telephone rang and the Chief +Constable lifted the receiver. + +“Yes, I am . . . Thanks very much. I’ll take down the address if +you’ll read it to me.” + +He jotted something down on a sheet of paper. + +“Thanks. Good-bye, Joan.” + +He flicked the note over to Armadale. + +“Would you mind seeing if we can get on to that house by ’phone, +Inspector? Hunt up the London Directory for it.” + +“It’s Cecil Chacewater’s address?” said Armadale, glancing at the +slip. + +“Yes. The man he’s staying with may be on the ’phone.” + +In a few minutes the Inspector came back with the number and Sir +Clinton rang up. After a short talk he put down the receiver and +turned to Armadale. + +“He says he can’t come to-day. You heard me explaining that we want +that secret passage opened, if there is one. But he doesn’t seem to +think there’s any hurry. He has some business which will keep him till +to-morrow.” + +“I heard you tell him that his brother’s disappeared,” the Inspector +commented. “I’d have thought that would have brought him back quick +enough.” + +“It hasn’t, evidently,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it necessary +to say. There seemed to be no reason for admitting the Inspector into +the secret of the Ravensthorpe quarrels. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +Underground Ravensthorpe + +When Inspector Armadale presented himself at the Chief Constable’s +office next morning he found Sir Clinton still faithful to his +proposed policy of pooling all the facts of the case. + +“I’ve just been in communication with the coroner,” Sir Clinton +explained. “I’ve pointed out to him that possibly we may have further +evidence for the inquest on Foss; and I suggested that he might +confine himself to formalities as far as possible and then adjourn for +a day or two. It means keeping Marden and the chauffeur here for a +little longer; but they can stay at Ravensthorpe. Miss Chacewater has +no objections to that. She agreed at once when I asked her.” + +“The jury will have enough before them to bring in a verdict of murder +against some one unknown,” the Inspector pointed out. “Do you want to +make it more definite while we’re in the middle of the case?” + +Sir Clinton made a noncommittal gesture as he replied: + +“Let’s give ourselves the chance, at least, of putting a name on the +criminal. If we don’t succeed there’s no harm done. Now here’s another +point. I’ve had a telephone message from Scotland Yard. They’ve +nothing on record corresponding to the finger-prints of Marden or the +chauffeur. Foss was a wrong ’un. They’ve identified his finger-prints; +and his photograph seems to have been easily recognizable by some of +the Yard people who had dealings with him before. He went by the name +of Cocoa Tom among his intimates; but his real name was Thomas +Pailton. He’d been convicted a couple of times, though not recently.” + +“What was his line?” the Inspector inquired. + +“Confidence trick in one form or another, they say. Very plausible +tongue, apparently.” + +“Did they say anything more about him?” asked the Inspector. “Anything +about working with a gang usually, or something like that? If he did, +then we might get a clue or two from his associates.” + +“He usually played a lone hand, it seems,” Sir Clinton answered. +“Apparently he used to be on the Halls—the cheaper kind. ‘The +Wonderful Wizard of Woz’ he called himself then. But somehow they made +the business too hot for him and he cleared out into swindling.” + +“Ah!” Armadale evidently saw something which had not occurred to him +before. “Those pockets of his—the ones that puzzled me. They might +have been useful to a man who could do a bit of sleight-of-hand. I +never thought of that at the time.” + +He looked accusingly at Sir Clinton, who laughed at the expression in +the Inspector’s eyes. + +“Of course I admit I saw the use of the pockets almost at once,” he +said. “But that’s not a breach of our bargain, Inspector. The facts +are all that we are pooling, remember; and the fact that Foss had +these peculiar pockets was as well known to you as to myself. This +notion about sleight-of-hand is an interpretation of the facts, +remember; and we weren’t to share our inferences.” + +“I knew pretty well at the time that you’d spotted something,” +Armadale contented himself with saying. “But since you put it in that +way I’ll admit you were quite justified in keeping it to yourself as +special information, sir. I take it that it’s a race between us now; +and the one that hits on the solution first is the winner. I don’t +mind.” + +“Then there’s one other bit of information needed to bring us level. +I’ve just had a message over the ’phone from Mr. Cecil Chacewater. It +appears he’s just got home again; came by the first train in the +morning from town, apparently. He’s waiting for us now, so we’d better +go up to Ravensthorpe. I have an idea that he may be able to throw +some light on his brother’s disappearance. At least he may be able to +show us how that disappearing trick was done; and that would always be +a step forward.” + +When they reached Ravensthorpe Cecil was awaiting them. The inspector +noticed that he seemed tired and had a weary look in his eyes. + +“Been out on the spree,” was Armadale’s silent inference; for the +Inspector was inclined to take a low view of humanity in general, and +he put his own interpretation on Cecil’s looks. + +Sir Clinton, in a few rapid sentences, apprised Cecil of the facts of +the case. + +“I’d heard some of that before, you know,” Cecil admitted. “Maurice’s +disappearance seems to have caused a bit of a stir. I can’t say he’s +greatly missed for the sake of his personality; but naturally it’s +disturbing to have a brother mislaid about the place.” + +“Very irksome, of course,” agreed Sir Clinton, with a faint parody of +Cecil’s detached air. + +Cecil seemed to think that the conversation had come to a deadlock, +since the Chief Constable made no effort to continue. + +“Well, what about it?” he demanded. “I haven’t got Maurice concealed +anywhere about my person, you know.” + +He elaborately felt in an empty jacket pocket, ending by turning it +inside out. + +“No,” he pointed out, “he isn’t there. In fact, I’m almost certain I +haven’t got him anywhere in this suit.” + +Cecil’s studied insolence seemed to escape Sir Clinton’s notice. + +“There was a celebrated historical character who said something of the +same sort once upon a time. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you remember +that?” + +“Good old Cain? So he did. And his name begins with a C, just like +mine, too! Any other points of resemblance you’d like to suggest?” + +“Not just now,” Sir Clinton responded. “Information would be more to +the purpose at present. Let’s go along to the museum, please. There +are one or two points which need to be cleared up as soon as +possible.” + +Cecil made no open demur; but his manner continued to be obviously +hostile as they made their way along the passages. At the museum door +the constable on guard stood aside in order to let them pass in. + +“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton ordered, as his companions were about to +enter the room. “I want to try an experiment before we go any +further.” + +He turned to Cecil. + +“Will you go across and stand in front of the case in which the +Muramasa sword used to be kept? You’ll find the sheath still in the +case. And you, Inspector, go to the spot where we found Foss’s body.” + +When they had obeyed him he swung the door round on its hinges until +it was almost closed, and then looked through the remaining opening. + +“Say a few words in an ordinary tone, Inspector. A string of addresses +or something of that sort.” + +“William Jones, Park Place, Amersley Royal,” began the Inspector, +obediently; “Henry Blenkinsop, 18 Skeening Road, Hinchley; John Orran +Gordon, 88 Bolsover Lane . . .” + +“That will be enough, thanks. I can hear you quite well. Now lower +your voice a trifle and say ‘Muramasa,’ ‘Japanese,’ and ‘sword,’ +please. And mix them into the middle of some more addresses.” + +The Inspector’s tone as he spoke showed plainly that he was a trifle +bewildered by his instructions. + +“Fred Hall, Muramasa, Endelmere; Harry Bell, 15 Elm Japanese Avenue, +Stonyton; J. Hicky, sword, The Cottage, Apperley . . . Will that do?” + +“Quite well, Inspector. Many thanks. Think I’m mad? All I wanted was +to find out how much a man in this position could see and hear. +Contributions to the pool. First, I can see the case where the +Muramasa sword used to lie. Second, I can hear quite plainly what +you’re saying. The slight echo in the room doesn’t hinder that.” + +He swung the door open and came into the museum. + +“Now, Cecil,” he said—and the Inspector noticed that all sign of +lightness had gone out of his tone, “you know that Maurice disappeared +rather mysteriously from this room? He was in it with Foss; there was +a man at the door; Foss was murdered in that bay over there; and +Maurice didn’t leave the room by the door. How did he leave?” + +“How should I know?” demanded Cecil, sullenly. “You’d better ask him +when he turns up again. I’m not Maurice’s nursemaid.” + +Sir Clinton’s eyes grew hard. + +“I’ll put it plainer for you. I’ve reason to believe that there’s an +entrance to a secret passage somewhere in that bay beyond the safe. +It’s the only way in which Maurice could have left this room. You’ll +have to show it to us.” + +“Indeed!” Cecil’s voice betrayed nothing but contempt for the +suggestion. + +“It’s for your own benefit that I make the proposal,” Sir Clinton +pointed out. “Refuse if you like. But if you do I’ve a search-warrant +in my pocket and I mean to find that entrance even if I have to root +out most of the panelling and gut the room. You won’t avert the +discovery by this attitude of yours. You’ll merely make the whole +business public. It would be far more sensible to recognize the +inevitable and show us the place yourself. I don’t want to damage +things any more than is necessary. But if I’m put to it I’ll be +thorough, I warn you.” + +Cecil favoured the Chief Constable with an angry look; but the +expression on Sir Clinton’s face convinced him that it was useless to +offer any further opposition. + +“Very well,” he snarled. “I’ll open the thing, since I must.” + +Sir Clinton took no notice of his anger. + +“So long as you open it the rest doesn’t matter. I’ve no desire to pry +into things that don’t concern me. I don’t wish to know how the panel +opens. Inspector, I think we’ll turn our backs while Mr. Chacewater +works the mechanism.” + +They faced about. Cecil took a few steps into the bay. There was a +sharp snap; and when they turned round again a door gaped in the +panelling at the end of the room. + +“Quite so,” said Sir Clinton. “Most ingenious.” + +His voice had regained its normal easy tone; and now he seemed anxious +to smooth over the ill-feeling which had come to so acute a pitch in +the last few minutes. + +“Will you go first, Cecil, and show us the way? I expect it’s +difficult for a stranger. I’ve brought an electric torch. Here, you’d +better take it.” + +Now that he had failed in his attempt, Cecil seemed to recover his +temper again. He took the torch from the Chief Constable and, pressing +the spring to light it, stepped through the open panel. + +“I think we’ll lock the museum door before we go down,” Sir Clinton +suggested. “There’s no need to expose this entrance to any one who +happens to come in.” + +He walked across the museum, turned the key in the lock, and then +rejoined his companions. + +“Now, Cecil, if you please.” + +Cecil Chacewater led the way; Sir Clinton motioned to the Inspector to +follow him, and brought up the rear himself. + +“Look out, here,” Cecil warned them. “There’s a flight of steps almost +at once.” + +They made their way down a spiral staircase which seemed to lead deep +into the foundations of Ravensthorpe. At last it came to an end, and a +narrow tunnel gaped before them. + +“Nothing here, you see,” Cecil pointed out, flashing the torch in +various directions. “This passage is the only outlet.” + +He led the way into the tunnel, followed by the Inspector. Sir Clinton +lagged behind them for a moment or two, and then showed no signs of +haste, so that they had to pause in order to let him catch up. + +The tunnel led them in a straight line for a time, then bent in a +fresh direction. + +“It’s getting narrower,” the Inspector pointed out. + +“It gets narrower still before you’re done with it,” Cecil vouchsafed +in reply. + +As the passage turned again Sir Clinton halted. + +“I’d like to have a look at these walls,” he said. + +Cecil turned back and threw the light of the torch over the sides and +roof of the tunnel. + +“It’s very old masonry,” he pointed out. + +Sir Clinton nodded. + +“This is a bit of old Ravensthorpe, I suppose?” + +“It’s older than the modern parts of the building,” Cecil agreed. He +seemed to have overcome his ill-humour and to be making the best of +things. + +“Let’s push on, then,” Sir Clinton suggested. “I’ve seen all I wanted +to see, thanks.” + +As they proceeded, the tunnel walls drew nearer together and the roof +grew lower. Before long the passage was barely large enough to let +them walk along it without brushing the stones on either side. + +“Wait a moment,” Sir Clinton suggested, as they reached a fresh +turning. “Inspector, would you mind making a rough measurement of the +dimensions here?” + +Somewhat mystified, Inspector Armadale did as he was bidden, entering +the figures up in his note-book while Cecil stood back, evidently +equally puzzled by these manœuvres. + +“Thanks, that will do nicely,” Sir Clinton assured him when the task +had been completed. “Suppose we continue?” + +Cecil advanced a few steps. Then a thought seemed to strike him. + +“It gets narrower farther on. We’ll have to go on hands and knees, and +there won’t be room to pass one another. Perhaps one of you should go +first with the torch. There’s nothing in the road.” + +Sir Clinton agreed to this. + +“I’ll go first, then. You can follow on, Inspector.” + +Inspector Armadale looked suspicious at this suggestion. + +“He might get away back and shut us in,” he murmured in Sir Clinton’s +ear. + +The Chief Constable took the simplest way of reassuring the Inspector. + +“That’s an ingenious bit of mechanism in the panel, up above,” he said +to Cecil. “I had a glance at it as I passed, since it’s all in plain +sight. From this side, you’ve only to lift a bar to open it, haven’t +you?” + +“That’s so,” Cecil confirmed. + +Armadale was evidently satisfied by the information which Sir Clinton +had thus conveyed to him indirectly. He squeezed himself against the +wall and allowed the Chief Constable to come up to the head of the +party. Sir Clinton threw his light down the passage in front of them. + +“It looks like all-fours, now,” he commented, as the lamp revealed a +steadily diminishing tunnel. “We may as well begin now and save +ourselves the chance of knocking our heads against the roof.” + +Suiting the action to the word, he got down on hands and knees and +began to creep along the passage. + +“At least we may be thankful it’s dry,” he pointed out. + +The tunnel grew still smaller until they found more than a little +difficulty in making their way along it. + +“Have we much farther to go?” asked the Inspector, who seemed to have +little liking for the business. + +“The end’s round the next corner,” Cecil explained. + +They soon reached the last bend in the passage, and as he turned it +Sir Clinton found himself at the entrance to a tiny space. The roof +was even lower than that of the tunnel, and the floor area was hardly +more than a dozen square feet. A stone slab, raised a few inches from +the ground, seemed like a bed fitted into a niche. + +“A bit wet in this part,” Sir Clinton remarked. “If I’d known that we +were in for this sort of thing I think I’d have put on an old suit +this morning. Mind your knees on the floor, Inspector. It’s fairly +moist.” + +He climbed into the niche, which was no bigger than the bunk of a +steamer, and began to examine his surroundings with his torch. +Inspector Armadale, taking advantage of the space thus made clear, +crept into the tiny chamber. + +“This place looks as if it had been washed out, lately,” he said, +examining the smooth flagstones which formed the floor. He turned his +attention to the roof, evidently in search of dripping water; but he +could find none, though the walls were moist. + +Suddenly Sir Clinton bent forward and brought his lamp near something +on the side of the niche. + +The Inspector, seeing something in the patch of light, craned forward +to look also, and as he did so he seemed to recognize what he saw. + +“Why, that’s . . .” he ejaculated. + +Sir Clinton’s lamp went out abruptly, and Inspector Armadale felt his +arm gripped warningly in the darkness. + +“Sorry,” the Chief Constable apologized. “My finger must have shifted +the switch on the torch. Out of the way, Inspector, please. There’s +nothing more to be seen here.” + +Inspector Armadale wriggled back into the passage again as Sir Clinton +made a movement as though to come out of his perch in the recess. + +“So this is where Maurice got to when he left the museum?” the Chief +Constable said, reflectively. “Well, he isn’t here now, that’s plain. +We’ll need to look elsewhere, Inspector, according to your scheme. If +he wasn’t elsewhere he was to be here. But as he isn’t here he’s +obviously elsewhere. And now I think we’ll make our way up to the +museum again. Wait a moment! We’ve got to get back into that passage +with our heads in the right direction. Once we’re into the tunnel +there won’t be room to turn round.” + +It took some manœuvring to arrange this, for the tiny chamber was a +tight fit for even three men; but at last they succeeded in getting +back into the tunnel in a position which permitted them to creep +forwards instead of backwards. They finally accomplished the long +journey without incident, and emerged through the gaping panel into +the museum once more. + +“Now we’ll turn our backs again, Inspector, and let Mr. Chacewater +close the panel.” + +Again the sharp click notified them that they could turn round. The +panelling seemed completely solid. + +“There are just a couple of points I’d like to know about,” Sir +Clinton said, turning to Cecil. “You don’t know the combination that +opens the safe over there, I believe?” + +Cecil Chacewater seemed both surprised and relieved to hear this +question. + +“No,” he said. “Maurice kept the combination to himself.” + +Sir Clinton nodded as though he had expected this answer. + +“Just another point,” he continued. “You may not be able to remember +this. At any time after you and Foxton Polegate had planned that +practical joke of yours, did Foss ask you the time?” + +Cecil was obviously completely taken aback by this query. + +“Did he ask me the time? Not that I know of. I can’t remember his ever +doing that. Wait a bit, though. No, he didn’t.” + +Sir Clinton seemed disappointed for a moment. Then, evidently, a fresh +idea occurred to him. + +“On the night of the masked ball, did any one ask you the time?” + +Cecil considered for a moment or two. + +“Now I come to think of it, a fellow dressed as a cow-boy came up and +said his watch had stopped.” + +“Ah! I thought so,” was all Sir Clinton replied, much to the vexation +of Inspector Armadale. + +“By the way,” the Chief Constable went on, “I’d rather like to get to +the top of one of those turrets up above.” He made a gesture +indicating the roof. “There’s a stair, isn’t there?” + +Armadale had difficulty in concealing his surprise at this unexpected +demand. Cecil Chacewater made no difficulties, but led them upstairs +and opened the door of the entrance to a turret. When they reached an +open space at the summit, Sir Clinton leaned on the parapet and gazed +over the surrounding country with interest. As the space was +restricted, Cecil remained within the turret, at the top of the stair; +but the Inspector joined his Chief on the platform. + +“Splendid view, isn’t it, Inspector?” + +“Yes, sir. Very fine.” + +Armadale was evidently puzzled by this turn of affairs. He could not +see why Sir Clinton should have come up to admire the view instead of +getting on with the investigation. The Chief Constable did not seem to +notice his subordinate’s perplexity. + +“There’s Hincheldene,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “With a decent pair of +glasses one could read the time on the clock-tower on a clear day. +These woods round about give a restful look to things. Soothing, that +greenery. Ah! Just follow my finger, Inspector. See that white thing +over yonder? That’s one of these Fairy Houses.” + +He searched here and there in the landscape for a moment. + +“There’s another of them, just where you see that stream running +across the opening between the two spinneys—yonder. And there’s a +third one, not far off that ruined tower. See it? I wonder if we could +pick up any more. They seem to be thick enough on the ground. Yes, see +that one in the glade over there? Not see it? Look at that grey +cottage with the creeper on it; two o’clock; three fingers. See it +now?” + +“I can’t quite make it out, sir,” the Inspector confessed. + +He seemed bored by Sir Clinton’s insistence on the matter; but he held +up his hand and tried to discover the object. After a moment or two he +gave up the attempt and, turning round, he noticed his Chief slipping +a small compass into his pocket. + +“Quite worth seeing, that view,” Sir Clinton remarked, imperturbably, +as he made his way towards the turret stair. “Thanks very much, Cecil. +I don’t think we need trouble you any more for the present; but I’d +like to see your sister, if she’s available. I want to ask her a +question.” + +Cecil Chacewater went in search of Joan, and after a few minutes she +met them at the foot of the stair. + +“There’s just one point that occurred to me since you told us about +that interview you and Maurice had with Foss before you went to the +museum. You were sitting on the terrace, weren’t you?” + +“Yes,” Joan confirmed. + +“Then you must have seen Foss’s car drive up when it came to wait at +the front door for him?” + +“I remember seeing it come up just before we went to the museum. I +didn’t say anything about it before. It didn’t seem to matter much.” + +“That was quite natural,” Sir Clinton reassured her. “In fact, I’m not +sure that it matters much even yet. I’m just trying for any evidence I +can get. Tell me anything whatever that you noticed, no matter whether +it seems important or not.” + +Joan thought for almost a minute before replying. + +“I did notice the chauffeur putting the hood up, and I wondered what +on earth he was doing that for on a blazing day.” + +“Anything else?” + +“He had his tool-kit out and seemed to be going to do some repair or +other.” + +“At the moment when he’d brought the car round for Foss?” demanded the +Inspector, rather incredulously. “Surely he’d have everything spick +and span before he left the garage?” + +“You’d better ask him about it, himself, Inspector,” said Joan, +tartly. “I’m merely telling what I saw; and I saw that plain enough. +Besides, he may have known he’d plenty of time. Mr. Foss was going +away with us and obviously he wasn’t in a hurry to use the car.” + +Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s interruption. + +“I’ve got my own car at the door,” he observed. “Perhaps you could go +out on to the terrace and direct me while I bring it into the same +position as you saw Foss’s car that afternoon.” + +Joan agreed; and they went down together. + +“Now,” said Sir Clinton as he started the engine, “would you mind +directing me?” + +Joan, from the terrace, indicated how he was to manœuvre until he had +brought his own car into a position as near as possible to that +occupied by Foss’s car on the afternoon of the murder. + +“That’s as near as I can get it,” she said at last. + +Sir Clinton turned in his seat and scanned the front of Ravensthorpe. + +“What window is this that I’m opposite?” he inquired. + +“That’s the window of the museum,” Joan explained. “But you can’t see +into the room, can you? You’re too low down there.” + +“Nothing more than the tops of the cases,” Sir Clinton said. “You’d +better get aboard, Inspector. There’s nothing more to do here.” + +He waved good-bye to Joan as Armadale stepped into the car, and then +drove down the avenue. The Inspector said nothing until they had +passed out of the Ravensthorpe grounds and were on the high road +again. Then he turned eagerly to the Chief Constable. + +“That was a splash of blood you found on the wall of the underground +room, wasn’t it? I recognized it at once.” + +“Don’t get excited about it, Inspector,” said Sir Clinton soothingly. +“Of course it was blood; but we needn’t shout about it from the +house-tops, need we?” + +Armadale thought he detected a tacit reproof for his exclamation at +the time the discovery was made. + +“You covered up that word or two of mine very neatly, sir,” he +admitted frankly. “I was startled when I saw that spot of blood on the +wall, and I nearly blurted it out. Silly of me to do it, I suppose. +But you managed to smother it up with that bungling with your lamp +before I’d given anything away. I’d no notion you wanted to keep the +thing quiet.” + +“No harm done,” Sir Clinton reassured him. “But be careful another +time. One needn’t show all one’s cards.” + +“You certainly don’t,” Armadale retorted. + +“Well, you have all the facts, Inspector. What more do you expect?” + +Armadale thought it best to change the subject. + +“That water that we saw down there,” he went on. “That never leaked in +through the roof. The masonry overhead was as tight as a drum and +there wasn’t a sign of drip-marks anywhere. That water came from +somewhere else. Some one had been washing up in that cellar. There had +been more blood there—lots of it; and they’d washed it away. That tiny +patch was a bit they’d overlooked. Isn’t that so, sir?” + +“That’s an inference and not a fact, Inspector,” Sir Clinton pointed +out, with an expression approaching to a grin on his face. “I don’t +say you’re wrong. In fact, I’m sure you’re right. But only facts are +supposed to go into the common stock, remember.” + +“Very good, sir.” + +But the Inspector had something in reserve. + +“I’ll give you a fact now,” he said with ill-suppressed triumph. “As +you came away, you happened to ask Mr. Chacewater if he’d come by the +first train this morning.” + +“Yes.” + +“And he said he did?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well,” said Armadale, with a tinge of derision in his voice, “he took +you in, there; but he didn’t come over me with that tale. He didn’t +come by the first train; he wasn’t in it! And what’s more, he didn’t +come by train to our station at all, for I happened to make inquiries. +I knew you were anxious for him to come back, and I thought I’d ask +whether he’d come.” + +“That’s very interesting,” said Sir Clinton. + +He made no further remark until they reached the police station. Then, +as they got out of the car, he turned to the Inspector. + +“Care to see me do a little map-drawing, Inspector? It might amuse +you.” + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Chuchundra’s Body + +Sir Clinton’s map-drawing, however, was destined to be postponed. +Hardly had they entered his office when the telephone bell rang. After +a few moments’ conversation he put down the receiver and turned to +Armadale. + +“That’s Mold, the keeper. He’s found Maurice Chacewater’s body. He’s +telephoning from his own cottage, so I told him to wait there and +we’ll go up in the car. The body’s in the woods and we’ll save time by +getting Mold to guide us to it instead of hunting round for the +place.” + +It did not take long to reach the head keeper’s cottage, where they +found Mold in a state of perturbation. + +“Where is this body?” Sir Clinton demanded, cutting short Mold’s +rather confused attempts to explain matters. “Take us to it first of +all and then I’ll ask what I want to know.” + +Under the keeper’s guidance they made their way through the woods, and +at last emerged into a small clearing in the centre of which rose a +few ruined walls. + +“This is what they call the Knight’s Tower,” Armadale explained. + +Sir Clinton nodded. + +“I expected something of the sort. Now, Mold, where’s Mr. Chacewater’s +body?” + +The keeper led them round the Tower, and as they turned the corner of +a wall they came upon the body stretched at full length on the grass. + +“The turf’s short,” said Armadale, with some disappointment. “There’s +no track on it round about here.” + +“That’s true,” said Sir Clinton. “We’ll have to do without that help.” + +He walked over to where Maurice Chacewater was lying. The body was on +its back; and a glance at the head was enough to show that life must +be extinct. + +“It’s not pretty,” Sir Clinton said as he pulled out his handkerchief +and covered the dead face. “Shot at close range, evidently. I don’t +wonder you were a bit upset, Mold.” + +He glanced round the little glade, then turned again to the keeper. + +“When did you find him?” he demanded. + +“Just before I rang you up, sir. As soon as I came across him, I ran +off to my cottage and telephoned to you.” + +“When were you over this ground last?—before you found him, I mean.” + +“Just before dusk, last night, sir. He wasn’t there, then.” + +“You’re sure?” + +“Certain, sir. I couldn’t have missed seeing him.” + +“You haven’t touched the body?” + +Mold shuddered slightly. + +“No, sir. I went off at once and rang you up.” + +“You met no one hereabouts this morning?” + +“No, sir.” + +“And you saw no one last night, either?” + +“No, sir.” + +“It was somewhere round about here, wasn’t it, that you heard that +mysterious shot you told us about?” + +“Yes, sir. I was just here at the time.” + +Mold walked about twenty yards past the tower, to show the exact +position. Sir Clinton studied the lie of the land for a moment. + +“H’m! Have you any questions you want to ask, Inspector?” + +Armadale considered for a moment or two. + +“You’re sure you haven’t moved this body in any way?” he demanded. + +“I never put a finger on it,” Mold asserted. + +“And it’s lying just as it was when you saw it first?” Armadale +pursued. + +“As near as I can remember,” Mold replied, cautiously. “I didn’t wait +long after I saw it. I went off almost at once to ring up the police.” + +Armadale seemed to have got all the information he expected. Sir +Clinton, seeing that no more questions were to come, turned to the +keeper. + +“Go off to the house and tell Mr. Cecil Chacewater that his brother’s +found and that he’s to come here at once. You needn’t say anything +about the matter to any one else. They’ll hear soon enough. And when +you’ve done that, ring up the police station and tell them to send up +a sergeant and a couple of constables to me here. Hurry, now.” + +Mold went without a word. Sir Clinton waited till he was out of +earshot and then glanced at Armadale. + +“One thing stares you in the face,” the Inspector said in answer to +the look. “He wasn’t shot here. That wound would mean any amount of +blood; and there’s hardly any blood on the grass.” + +Sir Clinton’s face showed his agreement. He looked down at the body. + +“He’s lying on his back now; but after he was shot he lay on his left +side till _rigor mortis_ set in,” he pointed out. + +The Inspector examined the body carefully. + +“I think I see how you get that,” he said. “This left arm’s off the +ground a trifle. If he’d been shot here and fell in this position, the +arm would have relaxed and followed the lie of the ground. Is that +it?” + +“Yes, that and the hypostases. You see the marks on the left side of +the face.” + +“A dead man doesn’t shift himself,” the Inspector observed with an +oracular air. “Some one else must have had a motive for dragging him +about.” + +“Here’s a revolver,” Sir Clinton pointed out, picking it up gingerly +to avoid marking it with finger-prints. “You can see, later on, if +anything’s to be made out from it.” + +He put the revolver carefully down on a part of the ruined wall near +at hand and then returned to the body. + +“To judge by the _rigor mortis_,” he said, after making a test, “he +must have been dead for a good while—a dozen hours or more.” + +“What about that shot that the keeper said he heard?” queried +Armadale. + +“The time might fit well enough. But _rigor mortis_ is no real +criterion, you know, Inspector. It varies too much from case to case.” + +Inspector Armadale pulled out a small magnifying glass and examined +the dead man’s hand carefully. + +“Those were his finger-prints on that Japanese sword right enough, +sir,” he pointed out. “You can see that tiny scar on the thumb quite +plainly if you look.” + +He held out the glass, and Sir Clinton inspected the right thumb of +the body minutely. + +“I didn’t doubt it from the evidence you had before, Inspector; but +this certainly clinches it. The scar’s quite clear.” + +“Shall I go through the pockets now?” Armadale asked. + +“You may as well,” Sir Clinton agreed. + +Inspector Armadale began by putting his fingers into the body’s +waistcoat pocket. As he did so his face showed his surprise. + +“Hullo! Here’s something!” + +He pulled out the object and held it up for Sir Clinton’s inspection. + +“One of the Leonardo medallions,” Sir Clinton said, as soon as he had +identified the thing. “Let me have a closer look at it, Inspector.” + +He examined the edge with care. + +“This seems to be the genuine article, Inspector. I can’t see any hole +in the edge, which they told me was drilled to distinguish the +replicas from the real thing. No, there’s no mark of any sort here.” + +He handed it back to the Inspector, who examined it in his turn. Sir +Clinton took it back when the Inspector had done with it, and placed +it in his pocket. + +“I think, Inspector, we’ll say nothing about this find for the +present. I’ve an idea it may be a useful thing to have up our sleeve +before we’ve done. By the way, do you still connect Foxton Polegate +with this case?” + +Armadale looked the Chief Constable in the eye as he replied. + +“I’m more inclined to connect Cecil Chacewater with it, just now, sir. +Look at the facts. It’s been common talk that there was ill-feeling +between those two brothers. Servants talk; and other people repeat it. +And the business that ended in the final row between the two of them +was centred in these Leonardo medallions. That’s worth thinking over. +Then, again, Cecil Chacewater disappeared for a short while. You +couldn’t get in touch with him. And it was just at that time that +queer things began to happen here at Ravensthorpe. Where was he then? +It seems a bit suggestive, doesn’t it? And where was he last night? If +you looked at him this morning, you couldn’t help seeing he’d spent a +queer night, wherever he spent it. That was the night when this body +was brought here from wherever the shooting was done. And when you +asked Cecil Chacewater how he’d come home, he said he’d arrived by the +first train this morning. That was a lie. He didn’t come by that +train. He’d been here before that.” + +To the Inspector’s amazement and disgust Sir Clinton laughed +unaffectedly at this exposition. + +“It’s nothing to laugh at, sir. You can’t deny these things. I don’t +say they prove anything; but you can’t brush them aside by merely +laughing at them. They’ve got to be explained. And until they’ve been +explained in some satisfactory way things will look very fishy.” + +Sir Clinton recovered his serious mask. + +“Perhaps I laughed a little too soon, Inspector. I apologize. I’m not +absolutely certain of my ground; I quite admit that. But I’ll just +give you one hint. Sometimes one case looks as if it were two +independent affairs. Sometimes two independent affairs get interlocked +and look like one case. Now just think that over carefully. It’s +perhaps got the germ of something in it, if you care to fish it out.” + +“Half of what you’ve said already sounds like riddles to me, sir,” +Armadale protested, fretfully. “I’m never sure when you’re serious and +when you’re pulling my leg.” + +Sir Clinton was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival +of Cecil Chacewater. He nodded curtly to the two officials as he came +up. The Inspector stepped forward to meet him. + +“I’d like to put one or two questions to you, Mr. Chacewater,” he +said, ignoring the look on Sir Clinton’s face. + +Cecil looked Armadale up and down before replying. + +“Well, go on,” he said, shortly. + +“First of all, Mr. Chacewater,” the Inspector began, “I want to know +when you last saw your brother alive.” + +Cecil replied without the slightest hesitation: + +“On the morning I left Ravensthorpe. We’d had a disagreement and I +left the house.” + +“That was the last time you saw him?” + +“No. I see him now.” + +The Inspector looked up angrily from his notebook. + +“You’re giving the impression of quibbling, Mr. Chacewater.” + +“I’m answering your questions, Inspector, to the best of my ability.” + +Armadale made a fresh cast. + +“Where did you go when you left Ravensthorpe?” + +“To London.” + +“You’ve been in London, then, until this morning?” + +Cecil paused for a moment or two before answering. + +“May I ask, Inspector, whether you’re bringing any charge against me? +If you are, then I believe you ought to caution me. If you aren’t, +then I don’t propose to answer your questions. Now, what are you going +to do about it?” + +Armadale was hardly prepared for this move. + +“I think you’re injudicious, Mr. Chacewater,” he said in a tone which +he was evidently striving not to make threatening. “I know you didn’t +arrive by the first train this morning, though you told us you did. +Your position’s rather an awkward one, if you think about it.” + +“You can’t bluff me, Inspector,” Cecil returned. “Make your charge, +and I’ll know how to answer it. If you won’t make a charge, I don’t +propose to help you with a fishing inquiry.” + +The Inspector glanced at Sir Clinton’s face, and on it he read quite +plainly the Chief Constable’s disapproval of his proceedings. He +decided to go no further for the moment. Sir Clinton intervened to +make the situation less strained. + +“Would you mind looking at him, Cecil, and formally identifying him?” + +Cecil came forward rather reluctantly, knelt down beside his brother’s +body, examined the clothes, and finally, removing the handkerchief, +gazed for a moment or two at the shattered face. The shot had entered +the right side of the head and had done enough damage to show that it +had been fired almost in contact with the skin. + +Cecil replaced the handkerchief and rose to his feet. For a few +moments he stood looking down at the body. Then he turned away. + +“That’s my brother, undoubtedly.” + +Then, as if speaking to himself, he added in a regretful tone: + +“Poor old Chuchundra!” + +To the Inspector’s amazement Sir Clinton started a little at the word. + +“Was that a nickname, Cecil?” + +Cecil looked up, and the Inspector could see that he was more than a +little moved. + +“We used to call him that when we were kids.” + +Sir Clinton’s next question left the Inspector still further bemused. + +“Out of ‘The Jungle Book’ by any chance?” + +Cecil seemed to see the drift of the inquiry, for he replied at once: + +“Yes. _Rikki-tikki-tavi_, you know.” + +“I was almost certain of it,” said Sir Clinton. “I can put a name to +the trouble, I think. It begins with A.” + +Cecil reflected for a moment before replying. + +“Yes. You’re right. It does begin with A.” + +“That saves a lot of bother,” said Sir Clinton, thankfully. “I was +just going to fish in a fresh direction to get that bit of +information. I’m quite satisfied now.” + +Cecil seemed to pay little attention to the Chief Constable’s last +remark. His eyes went round to the shattered thing that had been his +brother. + +“I’d no notion it was as bad as all this,” he said, more to himself +than to the others. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so bitter +about things.” + +The sergeant and constables appeared at the edge of the clearing. + +“Seen all you want to see, Inspector?” asked Sir Clinton. “Then in +that case we can leave the body in charge of the sergeant. I see +they’ve got a stretcher with them. They can take it down to +Ravensthorpe.” + +Armadale rapidly gave the necessary orders to his subordinates. + +“Now, Inspector, I think we’ll go over to Ravensthorpe ourselves. I +want to see that chauffeur again. Something’s occurred to me.” + +As the three men walked through the belt of woodland Sir Clinton +turned to Cecil. + +“There’s one point I’d like to have cleared up. Do you know if Maurice +had any visitors in the last three months or so—people who wanted to +see the collection?” + +Cecil reflected for a time before he could recall the facts. + +“Now you mention it, I remember hearing Maurice say something about a +fellow—a Yankee—who was writing a book on Leonardo. That chap +certainly came here one day and Maurice showed him the stuff. The +medallions were what he chiefly wanted to look at, of course.” + +“You didn’t see him?” + +“No. None of us saw him except Maurice.” + +Sir Clinton made no comment; and they walked on in silence till they +came to the house. Inspector Armadale was by this time completely at +sea. + +“Find that chauffeur, Inspector, please; and bring him along. I’ve got +one or two points which need clearing up.” + +When the chauffeur arrived it was evident that Armadale had not been +mistaken when he described him as stupid-looking. Information had to +be dragged out of him by minute questioning. + +“Your name’s Brackley, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton began. + +“Yes, sir. Joe Brackley.” + +“Now, Brackley, don’t be in a hurry with your replies. I want you to +think carefully. First of all, on the day that Mr. Foss was murdered, +he ordered you to bring the car round to the front door.” + +“Yes, sir. I was to wait for him if he wasn’t there.” + +“You pulled up the car here, didn’t you?” + +Sir Clinton indicated the position in front of the house. + +“Yes, sir. It was there or thereabouts.” + +“Then you put up the hood?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What possessed you to do that on a sunny day?” + +“One of the fastenings was a bit loose and I wanted to make it right +before going out.” + +“You didn’t think of doing that in the garage?” + +“I didn’t notice it, sir, until I’d brought the car round. My eye +happened to fall on it. And just then I saw Mr. Foss going off into +the house with some people. He didn’t seem in a hurry, so I thought +I’d just time to make the repair before he came out.” + +“You got on to the running-board to reach the hood, didn’t you?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Which running-board? The one nearest the house?” + +“No, sir. The other one.” + +“So you could see the front of the house as you were working?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Did you see anything—anything whatever—while you were at work? You +must have raised your eyes occasionally.” + +“I could see the window opposite me.” + +“By and by, I think, Marden, the valet, came up and spoke to you?” + +“Yes, sir, he did. He’d been going to the post, he said, but there had +been some mistake or other and he’d come back.” + +“He left you and went into the house?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“After that, did you see Marden again—I mean within, say, twenty +minutes or so?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Where did you see him, if you can remember?” + +“Up there, sir, at that window. He was talking to Mr. Foss.” + +“When you were up on the running-board, you could just see into the +room?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What happened after that?” + +“I finished the repair; so I came down off the running-board and let +down the hood again.” + +“Anything else you can remember, Brackley?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Very well. That will do. By the way, Inspector,” Sir Clinton turned +round, preventing the Inspector from making any comments while the +chauffeur was standing by, “I’d clean forgotten the patrolling of the +place up yonder. I’ve never found time to go up there; but it’s really +a bit out of date now. I think we can dispense with the patrol after +to-night. And the same holds for that guard on the museum. There’s no +need for either of them.” + +“Very good, sir,” Armadale responded, mechanically. + +The Inspector was engaged in condemning his own stupidity. Why had he +not seen the possibilities involved in that repair of the hood? With +the extra foot of elevation of course the chauffeur could see further +into the museum than a man standing on the ground. And here was the +damning evidence that Marden’s story was a lie. And the Inspector had +missed it. He almost gritted his teeth in vexation as he thought of +it. The keystone of the case: and the Chief Constable had taken it +under his nose! + +Sir Clinton turned to Cecil as the chauffeur retired. + +“I shall be here about one o’clock in the morning, Cecil,” he said, +lowering his voice. “I want you to be on the watch and let me in +without any one getting wind of my visit. Can you manage it?” + +“Easily enough.” + +“Very well. I’ll be at the door at one o’clock sharp. But remember, +it’s an absolutely hush-hush affair. There must be no noise of any +sort.” + +“I’ll see to that,” Cecil assured him. + +Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector. + +“Now I think we’ll go across to where we left my car.” + +On the way to the police station Sir Clinton’s manner did not +encourage conversation; but as they got out of the car he turned to +Armadale. + +“Map-drawing’s a bit late in the day now, Inspector; but we may as +well carry on for the sake of completeness.” + +He led the way to his office, took a ruler and protractor from his +desk, and set to work on a sheet of paper. + +“Take this point as the museum,” he said. “This line represents the +beginning of the tunnel. I took the bearing that time when I lagged +behind you. At the next turn—this one here—I made a pretence of +examining the walls and took the bearing as we were standing there. I +got the third bearing when I asked you to measure the dimensions of +the tunnel. As it has turned out, secrecy wasn’t really necessary; but +it seemed just as well to keep the survey to ourselves. I got the +distances by pacing, except the last bit. There I had to estimate it, +since we were crawling on all fours; but I think I got it near +enough.” + +“And you carried all the figures in your memory?” + +“Yes. I’ve a fairly good memory when I’m put to it.” + +“You must have,” said Armadale, frankly. + +“Now,” Sir Clinton went on. “By drawing in these lines we get the +position of that underground room. It’s here, you see. The next thing +is to find out where it lies, relative to the ground surface. I had a +fair notion; so when I got to the top of the turret I took the bearing +of the Knight’s Tower. I’ll just rule it in. You see the two lines cut +quite near the cell. My notion is that there’s a second entrance into +that tunnel from that ruined tower. In the old days it may have been a +secret road into the outpost tower when a siege was going on.” + +“I see what you’re getting at now,” Armadale interrupted. “You mean +that Maurice Chacewater’s body was in the cell and that it was shifted +from there up the other secret passage—the one we didn’t see—and left +alongside the tower this morning?” + +“Something of that sort.” + +“And now we’ve got to find who killed Maurice Chacewater down there, +underground?” + +“There’s nothing in that, Inspector. He killed himself. It’s a fairly +plain case of suicide.” + +“But why did he commit suicide?” + +Sir Clinton appeared suddenly smitten with deafness. He ignored the +Inspector’s last inquiry completely. + +“I shall want you to-night, Inspector. Come to my house at about +half-past twelve. And you had better wear rubber-soled boots or tennis +shoes if you have them. We’ll go up to Ravensthorpe in my car.” + +“You’re going to arrest Marden, sir?” + +“No,” was Sir Clinton’s reply, which took the Inspector completely +aback. “I’m not going to arrest anybody. I’m going to show you what +Foss was going to do with his otophone; that’s all.” + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +The Otophone + +Punctually at half-past twelve the Inspector arrived at Sir Clinton’s +house. The Chief Constable’s first glance was at the feet of his +subordinate. + +“Tennis shoes? That’s right. Now, Inspector, I want you to understand +clearly that silence is absolutely essential when we get to work. +We’ll need to take a leaf out of the book of the ‘Pirates of +Penzance’: + + With cat-like tread + Upon our prey we steal. + +That’s our model, if you please. The car’s outside. We’ll go at once.” + +As preparations for an important raid, these remarks seemed to +Armadale hardly adequate; but as Sir Clinton showed no desire to +amplify them, the Inspector was left to puzzle over the immediate +future without assistance. The hint about the otophone had roused his +curiosity. + +“Foss’s hearing was quite normal,” he said to himself, turning the +evidence over in his mind. “He heard that conversation in the +winter-garden quite clearly enough. So quite evidently one couldn’t +call him deaf. And yet he was dragging an otophone about with him. I +don’t see it.” + +The Chief Constable pulled up the car in the avenue at a considerable +distance from the house. + +“Change here for Ravensthorpe,” he explained, opening the door beside +him. “I can’t take the motor nearer for fear of the engine’s noise +giving us away.” + +He glanced at the illuminated clock on the dashboard. + +“We’re in nice time,” he commented. “Come along, Inspector; and the +less said the better.” + +They reached the door of Ravensthorpe exactly at one o’clock. Cecil +was waiting for them on the threshold. + +“Switch off those lights,” Sir Clinton said in a whisper, pointing to +the hall lights which Cecil had left burning. “We mustn’t give the +show away if we can help it. Some one might be looking out of a window +and be tempted to come down and turn them out. You’re supposed to be +in bed, aren’t you?” + +Cecil nodded without speaking, and, crossing the hall, he extinguished +the lamps. Sir Clinton pulled an electric torch from his pocket. + +“There’s a staircase giving access to the servant’s quarters, isn’t +there?” + +Cecil confirmed this, and Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector. + +“Which of your men is on duty at the museum door to-night?” + +“Froggatt,” the Inspector answered. + +“We’ll go along to him,” said Sir Clinton. “I want you, Cecil, to take +the constable and post him at the bottom of that stair. Here’s the +flash-lamp.” + +Froggatt was surprised to see the party. + +“Now, Froggatt,” the Chief Constable directed. “You’re to go with Mr. +Chacewater. He’ll show you where to stand. All you have to do is to +stick to your post there until you’re relieved. It’ll only be a matter +of ten minutes or so. Don’t make the slightest sound unless anything +goes wrong. Your business is to prevent any one getting down the +stair. There’ll be no trouble. If you see any one, just shout: ‘Who’s +there?’ That’ll be quite enough.” + +The Inspector and Sir Clinton waited on the threshold of the museum +until Cecil came back. + +“Very convenient having these museum lights on all night,” Sir Clinton +remarked. “We don’t need to muddle about with the flash-lamp. Now just +wait here for a moment, and don’t speak a word. I’m going upstairs.” + +He ascended to the first floor, entered Foss’s room and picked up the +otophone, with which he returned to his companions. + +“Now we can get to work,” he whispered, leading the way into the +museum. “Just lock that door behind us, Inspector.” + +Followed by the other two he stepped across the museum to the bay +containing the safe. There he put the otophone on the floor and opened +the case of the instrument. From one compartment he took an ear-phone +with its head-band. A moment’s search revealed the position of the +connection, and he plugged the ear-phone wire into place in sockets +let into the outside of the attaché case. A little further examination +revealed a stud beside the leather handle, and this Sir Clinton +pressed. + +“That should start the thing,” he commented. + +He lifted the hinged metal plate slightly and peered into the cavity +which contained the valves. + +“That seems all right,” he said, as his eye caught the faint glow of +the dull emitters. + +Shutting down the plate again, the Chief Constable put his finger into +the compartment from which he had taken the ear-phone, pressed a +concealed spring, and pulled up the floor of the compartment. + +“This is the microphone,” he explained, drawing out a thick ebonite +disk mounted on the false bottom of the compartment. “It’s attached to +a longish wire so that you can take it out and put it on a table while +the case with the valves and batteries lies on the floor out of the +way. Now we’ll tune up.” + +He brought microphone and ear-phone together, when a faint musical +note made itself heard. Then he handed the microphone to Cecil. + +“Hold that tight against the safe door, Cecil. Get the base in contact +with the metal of the safe and keep the microphone face downwards. +It’s essential to hold it absolutely steady, for the slightest +vibration will put me off.” + +He fitted on the head-band and moved the two tiny levers of the +otophone until the adjustment of the instrument seemed to satisfy him. +Then, very cautiously, he began to work the mechanism of the +combination lock. For some time he seemed unable to get what he +wanted; but suddenly he made a slight gesture of triumph. + +“It’s an old pattern, as I thought. There’s no balanced fence arbour. +This is going to be an easy business.” + +Easy or not, it took him nearly a quarter of an hour to accomplish his +task; for at times he obviously went astray in the work. + +“Try to keep your feet still,” he said. “Every movement you make is +magnified up to the noise of a pocket avalanche.” + +At last the thing was done. The safe door swung open. Sir Clinton took +off the head-band, received the microphone from Cecil, and packed it +away in the case of the otophone along with the ear-phone. + +“You’d better jot down the number of the combination, Cecil,” he +suggested. “It’s on the dial at present.” + +While Cecil was busy with this, the Chief Constable switched off the +otophone and put it in a place of safety. + +“Now we’ll see what’s inside the safe,” he said. + +He swung the door full open and disclosed a cavity more like a +strong-room than a safe. + +“Have you any idea where the medallions were usually kept?” he +inquired. + +Cecil went over to one of the shelves and searched rapidly. + +“Why, there are only two of them here!” he exclaimed in dismay. + +“Hush!” Sir Clinton warned him sharply. “Don’t make a row. Have a good +look at the things.” + +Cecil picked up the medallions and scanned them minutely. His face +showed his amazement as he turned from one to another. + +“These are the replicas! Where have the genuine Leonardos gone?” + +“Never mind that for the present. Put these things back again. I’m +going to close the safe. We mustn’t risk talking too much here; and +the sooner we’re gone the better.” + +He picked up the otophone and led the way out of the museum. + +“You might bring Froggatt back to his post here,” he said. “We don’t +need him at the stair any longer. I must go upstairs again for a +moment with this machine.” + +Cecil piloted Froggatt back to his original post just as the Chief +Constable rejoined them. + +“I don’t want to talk here,” Sir Clinton said to Cecil. “Get a coat +and walk with us down to the car. We’ve done our work for the night.” + +The Chief Constable waited until they were well away from the house +before beginning his explanation. + +“That otophone is—as I expect you saw—simply a microphone for picking +up sound, plus a two-valve amplifier for magnifying it. The sounds +that reach the microphone are amplified by the valves set to any +extent, within limits, that you like to set it for. You can make the +crumpling of a piece of paper sound like a small thunderstorm if you +choose; and it’s especially sensitive to clicks and sounds of that +sort. The mere involuntary shifting of your feet on that parquet floor +made a lot of disturbance. + +“Now in the older type of combination locks, if the dial was carefully +manipulated, a person with sharp hearing might just be able to detect +a faint click when a tumbler fell into place in the course of a +circuit; and by making a note of the state of the dial corresponding +to each click the combination could finally be discovered. In the +modern patterns of locks this has been got round. They’ve introduced a +thing called a balanced fence arbour, which is lifted away from the +tumblers as soon as the lock spindle is revolved; so in this new +pattern there’s no clicking such as the older locks give.” + +“I see now,” said the Inspector. “That’s an old pattern lock; and you +were using the otophone to magnify the sound of the clicks?” + +“Exactly,” Sir Clinton agreed. “It made the thing mere child’s play. +Each click sounded like a whip-crack, almost.” + +“So that’s why Foss brought the otophone along? He meant to pick the +lock of the safe and get the medallions out of it?” + +“That was one possibility, of course,” Sir Clinton said, with a grave +face. “But I shouldn’t like to say that it was the only possibility.” + +He smoked for a few moments in silence, then he turned to Cecil. + +“Now I’ve a piece of work for you to do; and I want you to do it +convincingly. First thing to-morrow morning you’re to find some way of +spreading the news that you’ve recovered all the genuine medallions +and that they’re in the safe. Don’t give any details; but see that the +yarn gets well abroad.” + +“But all the real medallions are gone!” said Cecil in disgust. “And +whoever’s got them must know they’re gone.” + +“There’s nothing like a good authoritative lie for shaking +confidence,” Sir Clinton observed, mildly. “That’s your share in the +business. You’d better mention it at breakfast time to as many people +as you can; and you can telephone the glad news to me, with the door +of the telephone box open so that any one can hear it. Yell as loud as +you please, or louder if possible. It won’t hurt me at the other end. +In any case, see that the happy tidings wash the most distant shores.” + +“Well, since you say so, I’ll do it. But it’s sure to be found out, +you know, sooner or later.” + +“All I want is a single day’s run of it. My impression is that, if +things go well, I’ll have the whole Ravensthorpe affair cleared up by +this time to-morrow. But I don’t promise that as a certainty.” + +“And this yarn is part of your scheme?” + +“I’m setting a trap,” Sir Clinton assured them. “And that lie is the +bait I’m offering.” + +As they reached the car, he added: + +“See that your constable doesn’t say a word about this affair +to-night—to any one. That’s important, Inspector.” + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The Second Chase in the Woods + +“I’ve made all the necessary arrangements, sir,” Inspector Armadale +reported to the Chief Constable on the following evening. “A dozen +constables—two with rubber-soled shoes—and a couple of sergeants. +They’re to be at the Ravensthorpe gate immediately it’s dark enough. +The sergeants have the instructions; the constables don’t even know +where they’re going when they leave here.” + +“That’s correct,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “Let’s see. That’s fourteen +altogether. Less two, twelve. Plus you and myself, fourteen. I think +we’ll add to our number. Nothing like being on the safe side. Mr. +Chacewater’s personally interested in the affair; I think we’ll take +him in also. And Mr. Clifton might reasonably claim some share in the +business. That makes sixteen. You’re detaching two constables to watch +that lakelet. Well, surely fourteen of us ought to be able to pick up +the scoundrel without difficulty.” + +“You’re sure that he’ll make for the terrace over the pool, sir?” + +“Nothing’s sure in this world, Inspector. But I think there’s a fair +chance that he’ll make in that direction. And if he doesn’t, why, +then, we can run him down wherever he goes.” + +“If he goes up there, we’ll have him,” the Inspector affirmed. +“There’ll be no amateur bungling this time, like the last affair. I’ll +see to that myself. He won’t slip through a constabulary cordon as he +did when he’d only a lot of excited youngsters to deal with.” + +“I leave that part of the business entirely in your hands, Inspector,” +the Chief Constable assured him. + +“What I can’t see,” the Inspector continued, with a faint +querulousness in his tone, “is why you’re going about the thing in +this elaborate way. Why not arrest him straight off and be done with +it?” + +“Because there’s one little party you’ve omitted to take into your +calculations, Inspector—and that’s the jury. Suspicion’s not good +enough for us at this stage. Criminal trials aren’t conducted on +romantic lines. Everything’s got to be proved up to the hilt. Frankly, +in this case, you’ve been scattering your suspicions over a fairly +wide field, haven’t you?” + +“It’s our business to be suspicious of everybody,” the Inspector +pleaded in extenuation. + +“Oh, within limits, within limits, Inspector. You started by +suspecting Foxton Polegate; then you branched off to Marden; after +that you hovered a bit round Maurice Chacewater; and at the end you +were hot on Cecil Chacewater’s heels. There’s too much of the smart +reader of detective stories about that. He suspects about six of the +characters without having any real proof at all; and then when the +criminal turns up clearly in the last chapter he says: ‘Well, that +fellow was on my list of suspects.’ That style of thing’s no use in +real criminal work, where you’ve got to produce evidence and not +merely some vague suspicions.” + +“You’re a bit hard, sir,” the Inspector protested. + +“Well, you criticized my methods, remember. If I were to arrest the +fellow just now, I doubt if I could convince a jury of his guilt. And +they’d be quite right. It’s their business to be sceptical and insist +on definite proof. It’s that proof that I expect to get out of +to-night’s work.” + +“It will be very instructive for me, sir,” Inspector Armadale +commented, with heavy irony. + +“You take things too seriously,” Sir Clinton retorted, with an evident +double meaning in the phrase. “What you need, Inspector, is a touch of +fantasy. You’ll get a taste of it to-night, perhaps, unless my +calculations go far astray. Now I’m going to ring up Mr. Chacewater +and make arrangements for to-night.” + +And with that he dismissed the Inspector. + +Armadale retired with a grave face; but when he closed the door behind +him his expression changed considerably. + +“There he was, pulling my leg again, confound him!” he reflected. “A +touch of fantasy, indeed! What’s he getting at now? And the worst of +it is I haven’t got to the bottom of the business yet myself. He’s +been quite straight in giving me all the facts. I’m sure of that. But +they seem to me just a jumble. They don’t fit together anyhow. And yet +he’s not the bluffing kind; he’s got it all fixed up in his mind; I’m +sure of that, whether he’s right or wrong. Well, we’ll see before many +hours are over.” + +And with reflections like these Inspector Armadale had to content +himself until nightfall. + +As they drove up to the Ravensthorpe gates the Inspector found Sir +Clinton in one of his uncommunicative moods. He seemed abstracted, and +even, as the Inspector noted with faint malice, a little anxious about +the business before them. When they reached the gates they found the +constabulary squad awaiting them. Sir Clinton got out of the car, +after running it a little way up the avenue. + +“Now, the first thing you’ve got to remember,” he said, addressing the +squad, “is that in no circumstances are you to make the slightest +noise until you hear my second whistle. You know what you’re to do? +Get up behind the house at the end opposite to the servants’ wing and +stay there till you get my signal. Then you’re to come out and chase +the man whom the Inspector will show you. You’re not to try to catch +him. Keep a hundred yards behind him all the time; but don’t lose +sight of him. The Inspector will give you instructions after you’ve +chased for a while. Now which of you are the two with tennis shoes?” + +Two constables stepped out of the ranks. Sir Clinton took them aside +and gave them some special instructions. + +“Now, you’d better get to your places,” he said, turning to the squad +again. “Remember, not a sound. I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait, but +we must take things as they come.” + +As the squad was led off into the night, he moved over to where the +Inspector was standing. + +“I want something out of the car,” he said. The Inspector followed him +and waited while Sir Clinton switched off the headlights and the tail +lamp. The Chief Constable felt in a locker and handed something to +Armadale. + +“A pair of night-glasses, Inspector. You’ll need them. And that’s the +lot. We’d better get to our position. There’s no saying when the +fellow may begin his work.” + +Rather to the mystification of the Inspector, Sir Clinton struck +across the grass instead of following the avenue up to the house. +After a fairly long walk they halted under a large tree. + +“A touch of fantasy was what I recommended to you, Inspector. I think +a little tree-climbing is indicated. Sling these glasses round your +neck as I’m doing and follow on.” + +“Quite mad!” was the Inspector’s involuntary comment to himself. “I +suppose, once we get up there, he’ll come down again and tell me I +needed exercise.” + +He followed the Chief Constable, however; and was at last directed to +a branch on which he could find a safe seat. + +“Think I’m demented, Inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded with the +accuracy of a thought-reader. “It’s not quite so bad as that, you’ll +be glad to hear. Turn your glasses through that rift in the leaves. I +was at special pains to cut it yesterday evening, in preparation for +you. What do you see?” + +The Inspector focused his glasses and scanned the scene visible +through the fissure in the foliage. + +“The front of Ravensthorpe,” he answered. + +“Some windows?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, one of them’s the window of the museum; and this happens to be +one of the few points from which you can see right into the room. If +the lights were on there, you’d find that we’re looking squarely on to +the door of the safe.” + +With this help the Inspector was able to pick out the window which +evidently he was expected to watch. + +“It’ll be a slow business,” Sir Clinton said in a bored tone. “But one +of us has got to keep an eye on that window for the next hour or two +at least. We can take it in turn.” + +They settled down to their vigil, which proved to be a prolonged one. +The Inspector found his perch upon the branch anything but +comfortable; and it grew more wearisome as the time slipped past. + +“Fantasy!” he commented bitterly to himself as he shifted his position +for the twentieth time. “Cramp’s more likely.” + +But at last their tenacity was rewarded. It was during one of the +Inspector’s spells of watching. Suddenly the dark rectangle of the +window flashed into momentary illumination and faded again. + +“There he is!” exclaimed the Inspector. “He’s carrying a flash-lamp.” + +Sir Clinton lifted his glasses and examined the place in his turn. + +“I can see him moving about in the room,” the Inspector reported +excitedly. “Now he’s going over towards the safe. Can you see him, +sir?” + +“Fairly well. What do you make of him?” + +The Inspector studied his quarry intently for a while. + +“That’s the otophone, isn’t it, sir? I can’t see his face; it seems as +if he’d blackened it. . . . No, he’s wearing a big mask. It looks +like . . .” + +His voice rose sharply. + +“It’s Marden! I recognize that water-proof of his; I could swear to it +anywhere.” + +“That’s quite correct, Inspector. Now I think we’ll get down from this +tree as quick as we can and I’ll blow my whistle. That ought to +startle him. And I’ve arranged for that to be the signal for a +considerable amount of noise in the house, which ought to give the +effect we want.” + +He slipped lightly down the branches, waited for the slower-moving +Inspector, and then blew a single shrill blast on his whistle. + +“That’s roused them,” he said, with satisfaction, as some lights +flashed up in windows on the front of Ravensthorpe. “I guess that +amount of stir about the place will flush our friend without any +trouble.” + +He gazed through his glasses at the main door. + +“There he goes, Inspector!” + +A dark figure emerged suddenly on the threshold, hesitated for a +moment, and then ran down the steps. Armadale instinctively started +forward; but the cool voice of the Chief Constable recalled him. + +“There’s no hurry, Inspector! You’d better hang your glasses on the +tree here. They’ll only hamper you in running.” + +Hurriedly the Inspector obeyed; and Sir Clinton leisurely hung up his +own pair. Armadale turned again and followed the burglar with his +eyes. + +“He’s making for the old quarry, sir.” + +“So I see,” Sir Clinton assured him. “I want the fellow to have a good +start, remember. I don’t wish him to be pressed. Now we may as well +get the chase organized.” + +Followed by the Inspector, he hurried towards the front of +Ravensthorpe. + +“I think that’s a fair start to give him,” he estimated aloud. Then, +lifting his whistle, he blew a second blast. + +Almost immediately the figures of Cecil Chacewater and Michael Clifton +emerged from the main door, while a few seconds later the police squad +rounded the corner of the house. + +“Carry on, Inspector!” Sir Clinton advised. “I leave the rest of the +round-up to you. But keep exactly to what I told you.” + +Armadale hurried off, and within a few seconds the chase had been set +afoot. + +“We must see if we can wipe your eye this time, Mr. Clifton,” the +Chief Constable observed. “It’s a run over the old ground, you +notice.” + +Michael Clifton nodded in answer. + +“If you’d let me run him down I’d be obliged to you,” he suggested. +“You’ve given him a longish start, certainly; but I think I could pull +him in.” + +Sir Clinton made a gesture of dissent. + +“Oh, no. We must give him a run for his money. Besides, it wouldn’t +suit my book to have him run down too early in the game.” + +The fugitive had reached the edge of the pine-wood as they were +speaking, and now he disappeared from their sight among the arcades of +the trees. + +“The moon will be down in no time,” Cecil pointed out as they ran. +“Aren’t you taking the risk of losing him up in the woods there? It’ll +be pretty dark under the trees.” + +He quickened his pace slightly in his eagerness; but the Chief +Constable restrained him. + +“Leave it to Armadale. It’s his affair. We’re only spectators, +really.” + +“I want the beggar caught,” Cecil grumbled, but he obeyed Sir +Clinton’s orders and slowed down slightly. + +A few seconds brought them to the fringe of the wood; and far ahead of +them they could see the form of the burglar running steadily up the +track. + +“Just the same as before?” Sir Clinton demanded from Michael. + +“Just the same.” + +Through the wood they went behind the police squad. At the brow of the +hill, where the trees began to thin, Armadale called a halt. They +could hear him giving orders for the formation of his cordon. When his +men began to move off under his directions the Inspector came over to +Sir Clinton. + +“He’ll not slip through our hands this time, sir. I’ll beat every bit +of cover in that spinney. He can’t get away on either side without +being spotted. We’ll get our hands on him in a few minutes now. I +suppose he’s armed?” + +Sir Clinton shook his head. + +“I should doubt that.” + +The Inspector failed to conceal his surprise. + +“Not armed? He’s sure to be.” + +“We’ll see in a minute or two,” the Chief Constable answered. “You’d +better get your beaters to work, hadn’t you? . . . Ah!” + +In the silence they heard the sound of a faint splash from the +direction of the quarry. + +“History’s repeating itself pretty accurately, isn’t it?” said Sir +Clinton, turning to Michael. “That’s the kind of thing you heard the +other night?” + +“Just the same,” Michael admitted. + +But as the line of constables moved forward he could not help +contrasting their methodical work with the rather haphazard doings of +the pursuers on the earlier occasion. Armadale had evidently issued +stringent orders, for not a tuft of undergrowth was left unexamined as +the line slowly closed in upon the hunted man. Every possible piece of +cover was scrutinized and beaten before the cordon passed beyond it. + +“Very pretty,” Sir Clinton commented, as they moved up in the rear of +the line. “The Inspector must surely have been training these fellows. +They really do the business excellently.” + +Michael suddenly left the path they were following and stepped across +under the trees. + +“I’m going to have a look at that Fairy House myself,” he declared. +“That’s where I found Maurice after the last show. I want to be +perfectly certain that it’s empty.” + +He opened the door, leaned inside the building, and then came back to +his companions. Something like disappointment was visible in his +expression. He was taken aback to see glances of sardonic amusement +exchanged between Cecil and the Chief Constable. + +“Drawn blank, have you?” Cecil inquired. + +“There’s no one there at present,” Michael admitted. + +“I don’t think the constables would have missed a plain thing like +that,” Sir Clinton remarked mildly, though with a faint undertone of +correction in his voice. + +Before Michael had time to reply they heard Armadale’s voice. The +cordon had passed completely through the spinney and was now on the +edge of the marble terrace. + +“Come along,” Sir Clinton urged. “We mustn’t miss the final scene.” + +They hurriedly joined the line just as Armadale ordered a last +advance. + +“He’s somewhere on this terrace,” he told his men. “See that he +doesn’t break away from you at the last moment.” + +Sir Clinton turned to Michael. + +“Just the same as before?” + +Michael made a gesture of assent. + +“I’ll admit that this is more businesslike.” + +The Constabulary line crept forward almost foot by foot, subjecting +every one of the marble seats to the most rigid scrutiny. Inspector +Armadale’s anxiety was more and more apparent as the cordon advanced +without securing the man for whom they were searching. At last the +whole of the possible cover had been beaten, and the constables +emerged on the open terrace. The fugitive had vanished, apparently, +into thin air. + +Michael Clifton turned to the Chief Constable with an ironical smile. + +“_Just_ the same as last time, it seems. How history repeats itself!” + +The Inspector hurried across the terrace to where they were standing. +It was obvious that he was completely staggered by the turn of events. + +“He’s got away, sir,” he reported in a mortified voice. “I can’t think +how he’s managed it.” + +“I think we’ll repeat that last stage again, Inspector, if you don’t +mind. Withdraw your men till they’re just in front of that last line +of seats.” + +While the Inspector was giving his orders Sir Clinton pulled his case +from his pocket, opened it, and thoughtfully tapped a cigarette on the +lid. Before lighting it he threw a glance up and down the empty spaces +of the terrace from which the fugitive had so mysteriously vanished. + +“All plain and above board, isn’t it?” he said, turning to his two +companions. “I’ve got nothing in my hands except a cigarette, and you +can search my sleeves if you like. It is required, as Euclid would +say, to produce a full-sized burglar for the satisfaction of the +audience. It’s a stiff job.” + +He glanced again over the wide white pavement of the terrace. + +“A conjurer’s usually allowed a little patter, isn’t he? The quickness +of the tongue distracts the eye, and all that. Just a question, then. +Do you happen to remember what Medusa was able to do? Turned things +into stone when she looked at them, didn’t she? That somehow brings +the late Pygmalion to my mind—a kind of association of opposites, in a +way, I suppose. But I’ve often wondered what Pygmalion felt like when +the statue came to life.” + +He turned sharply on his heel. + +“You can come down off that pedestal, my friend. The game’s up!” + +To the amazement of the group around him, the white marble statue +above him started suddenly into life. It leapt down from its base on +to the pavement of the terrace, staggered as it alighted, and then, as +Cecil and Michael grasped at its smooth sides, it shook itself clear +and sprang upon the broad marble balustrade. + +“Come back, you fool!” Sir Clinton snapped, as the figure faced +outward to the gulf below. + +But instead of halting, the white form gathered itself together for an +instant and then dived headlong into the abyss. There was the sound of +a splash; and an appalling cry came up through the night. + +Sir Clinton dashed to the rail. + +“Below, there! Get out on that raft at once and pick him up. He’s +badly hurt. He’ll drown if you don’t hurry.” + +The Inspector hurried forward. + +“Why didn’t you warn us, sir? We’d have had Marden as easy as +anything. If you’d only told us what to expect.” + +Sir Clinton looked round. + +“Marden? That’s not Marden. I tell you, Inspector, if that jump of his +meant anything, it suggests that there’s no Marden at all.” + +The Inspector’s amazement overbore his chagrin. + +“I don’t understand . . .” he began. + +“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Get away down to the water-side at +once. See if he’s badly damaged. Quick, now.” + +As the Inspector hurried off, the Chief Constable turned to Michael +Clifton. + +“History doesn’t always repeat itself exactly, you see.” + +He pulled out a match-box and lit his cigarette in a leisurely +fashion. Then, throwing away the vesta, he inquired: + +“You see now how he got away from you last time?” + +Michael made no reply. He was examining the pedestal from which the +living statue had taken its flight; and he could see the scores and +cuts left by the chisel which had smoothed the standing-place of the +original marble figure. Quite obviously, on the night of the masked +ball, the same trick had been played; and while the pursuers were +searching all around, the fugitive had stood rigid above them, +unsuspected by any one. + +Cecil turned to the Chief Constable. + +“Aren’t you going down to see if something can’t be done for the poor +devil? He must have come a fearful smash on the rocks.” + +“Poor devil?” Sir Clinton retorted. “That’s not a poor devil. That’s a +wild beast, if you’re anxious for information. But if you’re a member +of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I suppose +we’d better see that things are done decently and in order. We’ll go +down, if you’re perturbed about him.” + +It took them some little time to descend to the level of the lakelet. +They could see, as they went down, the process of rescue; and when +they reached the water-side, they found two constables stooping over a +limp white figure, beside which the Inspector knelt solicitously. As +the newcomers approached, Armadale rose and stepped over to them. + +“He’s done for, sir,” he reported in a low voice to Sir Clinton. “His +pelvis is smashed and I think his spine must have gone as well. He’s +paralysed below the waist. I doubt if he’ll last long. It was a +fearful smash.” + +Cecil crossed over and peered down at the face of the dying man. For a +moment he failed to recognize him; for the white grease-paint +disguised the natural appearance of the features: but a closer +scrutiny revealed the identity of the living statue. + +“Why, it’s the chauffeur!” + +“Of course,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it worth while to say. + +Armadale brought something up from the water-side. + +“Here’s the waterproof he was wearing, sir. It’s Marden’s, just as I +told you when I saw him in the museum to-night. When he flung it over +the edge of the cliff as we were coming up, it landed on a broad bit +of rock instead of sinking like the Pierrot costume, the other night.” + +Sir Clinton was silent for a moment. His glance wandered to the +broken, white-clad figure on the ground, but no pity showed on his +face. Then he turned back to Armadale. + +“See if you can get a confession out of him, Inspector. He won’t live +long at the best; and he might as well tell what he can. We can’t hang +him now, unfortunately; and he may as well save us some trouble in +piecing things together. For one thing, he’s got a bag or a suit-case +lying around somewhere in the neighbourhood with a suit of clothes in +it. You’d better find out where that is, and save us the bother of +hunting for it. If you manage to get anything out of him, take it down +and get it witnessed. Bring it down to Ravensthorpe at once.” + +He paused, then added as if by an after-thought: + +“You’d better search these tights that he’s wearing. There ought to be +five of the medallions concealed about him somewhere. Get them for +me.” + +He turned to Cecil and Michael. + +“We’ll go back now to Ravensthorpe. Unless I’m far astray in my +deductions, there’s been another murder there; and we must keep the +girls from hearing about it, if we can.” + +As they walked through the pine-wood, Sir Clinton maintained a +complete taciturnity, and neither of the others cared to break in on +his silence. His last words had shown that ahead of them might lie yet +another of the Ravensthorpe tragedies, and the shadow of it lay across +their minds. It was not until they were approaching the house that the +Chief Constable spoke again. + +“You’ve spun that yarn I gave you to the girls?” + +“They know there was some stunt afoot,” said Cecil, “but they were to +keep out of the way, in their rooms, until we were clear of the +house.” + +“One had to tell them something,” Sir Clinton answered. “If one +hadn’t, they’d have been pretty uncomfortable when all that racket +started. You managed to scare him out very neatly with the row you +raised when I blew my whistle.” + +“The girls are sitting up, waiting for us,” Cecil explained. “They +said they’d have coffee ready when we came back.” + +“The deuce they did!” + +Sir Clinton was obviously put out. + +“I’d been counting on their going back to bed again. Then we could +have got Marden’s body away quietly—if he’s been murdered, as I think +he has. There’s no use upsetting people if you can avoid it. +Ravensthorpe’s had its fill of sensations lately and there’s no need +to add another to-night.” + +He reflected as he walked on, and at last he seemed to hit on an +expedient to suit the circumstances. + +“The bottom’s out of this case now,” he said, at last. “There’ll be no +trial; so there’s no need for any more secrecy, so far as I can see. +I’ll be giving nothing away that I shouldn’t, at this stage of the +game.” + +He threw away the end of his cigarette and looked up at the bulk of +Ravensthorpe before them. Here and there on the dark front the yellow +oblong of a window shone out in the night. + +“Suppose I spin them a yarn,” Sir Clinton went on. “I can keep them up +until dawn with it. After that, they’ll sleep sound enough; and while +they’re asleep, we’ll get Marden’s body away in peace and comfort. +It’ll spare them the shock of finding another corpse on the premises; +and that’s always something gained.” + +When they reached Ravensthorpe, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil. + +“You’d better go and close the safe in the museum. No use leaving +things like that open any longer than’s necessary. I must go up to +Marden’s room now. I’ll be back again in a minute or two.” + +Ascending the servants’ staircase, Sir Clinton made his way to the +valet’s room. The door was locked; but when Sir Clinton tapped gently, +a constable opened it and looked out. At the sight of the Chief +Constable, he stood aside. + +“He’s been murdered, sir,” the man explained in a whisper. + +“I guessed it might be that,” Sir Clinton returned. + +“Whoever did it must have chloroformed him first,” the constable went +on. “There was a pad of cotton-wool over his face; and his throat’s +cut.” + +The Chief Constable nodded in comprehension. + +“That would prevent any sounds,” he said. “Brackley was a first-class +planner, there’s no doubt.” + +The constable continued his explanation. + +“We came up here as you told us, sir; and when we heard your whistle +we slipped into the room, expecting to arrest him according to your +orders. But he was dead by that time. It was quite clear that he’d +been murdered only a short time before. Your orders didn’t cover the +case, so we thought the best thing to do was to lock the door and wait +till you came back. You’d said we were to keep him here till your +return, anyhow; so that seemed to be the best course.” + +“Quite correct,” Sir Clinton commended them. “You couldn’t have done +better. Now you’ll need to wait here till morning. Keep the door +locked, and don’t let any word of this affair get abroad. I’ll see +about removing the body in due course. Until then, I don’t want any +alarm on the subject.” + +He stepped across the room, examined the body on the bed, and then, +with a nod to the constables, he went downstairs once more. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Sir Clinton’s Solution + +“It’s a pleasure to meet Sir Clinton again,” Joan observed when they +had finished their coffee. “For the last ten days or so, I’ve been +dealing with a man they call the Chief Constable. I don’t much care +for him. These beetle-browed officials are not my sort. Too stiff and +overbearing for me, altogether.” + +Sir Clinton laughed at the hit. + +“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve invited one of your aversions to join us. In +fact, I think I hear him at the door now.” + +“Inspector Armadale?” Joan demanded. “Well, I’ve nothing against him. +You never let him get a word in edgeways at our interviews. Grasping, +I call it.” + +The door opened and the Inspector was ushered in. As he entered, a +glance passed between him and Sir Clinton. In reply, Armadale made a +furtive gesture which escaped the rest of the company. + +“Passed in his checks,” Sir Clinton interpreted it to himself. “That +clears the road.” + +Joan poured out coffee for the Inspector and then turned to the Chief +Constable. + +“Cecil promised that you’d tell us all about everything. Don’t linger +over it. We’re all in quite good listening form and we look to you not +to be boring. Proceed.” + +Sir Clinton refused to be disconcerted. + +“Inspector Armadale’s the last authority on the subject,” he remarked. +“He’s got the confession of the master mind in his pocket. I haven’t +seen it yet. Suppose I give you my account of things, and the +Inspector will check it for us where necessary? That seems a fair +division of labour.” + +“Very fair,” Una Rainhill put in. “Now, Joan, be quiet and let’s get +on with the tale.” + +“Before the curtain goes up,” Sir Clinton suggested, “you’d better +read your programmes. First of all you find the name of Thomas +Pailton, _alias_ Cocoa Tom, _alias_, J. B. Foss, _alias_ The Wizard of +Woz: a retired conjurer, gaolbird, confidence-trick sharp, etc. As I +read his psychology, he was rather a weak character and not over +straight even in dealing with his equals. In the present play, he was +acting under the orders of a gentleman of much tougher fibre. + +“The next name on the programme is Thomas Marden. The police have no +records of his early doings, but I suspect that Mr. Marden had cause +to bless his luck in this respect, rather than his honesty. I’m sure +he wasn’t a prentice hand. As to his character, I believe he was +rather a violent person when roused, and he had a deplorable lack of +control over a rather bad temper. + +“The third name is . . . ?” + +“Stephen Racks,” the Inspector supplied in answer to Sir Clinton’s +glance of inquiry. + +“_Alias_ Joe Brackley,” Sir Clinton continued. “I think we’ll call him +Brackley, since that was the name you knew him by, if you knew him at +all. He was nominally Foss’s chauffeur. Actually, I think, he was the +brain of the gang and did the planning for them.” + +“That’s correct,” the Inspector interpolated. + +“Mr. Brackley, I think, was the most deliberately unscrupulous of them +all,” Sir Clinton continued. “A really dangerous person who would +stick at nothing to get what he wanted or to cover his tracks. + +“Then, last of all, there’s a Mr. Blank, whose name I do not know, but +who at present is under arrest in America for forging the name of Mr. +Kessock the millionaire. He was employed by Mr. Kessock in some +capacity or other which gave him access to Mr. Kessock’s +correspondence. I’ve no details on that point as yet.” + +“This is the kind of stuff I always skip when I’m reading a detective +story,” complained Joan. “Can’t you get along to something interesting +soon?” + +“You’re like the Bellman in the ‘Hunting of the Snark,’ Joan. ‘Oh, +skip your dear uncle!’ Well, I skip, as you desire it. I’ll merely +mention in passing that an American tourist came here a while ago and +asked to see the Leonardo medallions, because he was writing a book on +Leonardo. He, I believe, was Mr. Blank from America; and his job was +to see the safe in the museum and note its pattern. + +“I must skip again; and now we reach the night of the robbery in the +museum. You know what happened then. Mr. Foss came to me with his tale +about overhearing some of you planning a practical joke. His story was +true enough, I’ve no doubt; but it set me thinking at once. I may not +have shown it, Joan, but I quite agreed with you about his methods. It +seemed a funny business to come straight to the police over a thing of +that sort. Of course he had his reason ready; but it didn’t ring quite +true, somehow. I might have put it down to tactlessness, if it hadn’t +suggested something else to my mind. + +“That pistol-shot which smashed the lamp was too neatly timed for my +taste. It was fired by some one who knew precisely when the keeper was +going to be gripped, and it was fired just in time to get ahead of +Foxton Polegate in the raid on the show-case. That meant, if it meant +anything, that the man who fired the shot was a person who knew of the +practical joke. But on the face of it, Foss was the only person who +knew about the joke, bar the jokers themselves. So naturally I began +to suspect Foss of having a hand in the business. It was the usual +mistake of the criminal—trying to be too clever and throw suspicion on +to some one else. + +“Now Foss wasn’t the man in white, obviously; for he came to see me +while the man-hunt was still in full cry. So at that stage in the +business I was fairly certain that at least two people were in the +game: Foss and some one else, who was the man in white. That looked +like either the valet or the chauffeur, since they were the only +people I knew about who were directly associated with Foss while he +was here. But this incognito business at the masked ball had made it +possible for outsiders to come in unrecognized; so the man in white +might be a confederate quite outside our range of knowledge. One +couldn’t assume that either Marden or Brackley was in the show at all. + +“I learned, later on, that Foss had synchronized his watch with yours, +Cecil; and that, of course, made it pretty plain that he was in the +game. There was also another bit of evidence which suggested +something. If either the valet or the chauffeur was the confederate, +then they could easily enough have found out from the servants what +costume Maurice meant to wear that night—a few questions to his valet +would have got the information—and they could have chosen the Pierrot +costume for their own runner in order to confuse things. That +suggested that Foss’s servants might be in the business; but it proved +nothing really. The white Pierrot costume was chosen mainly for its +conspicuousness, I’m sure. + +“Now I come to the disappearance of the man in white.” + +“Thank goodness!” Joan commented. “It gets more interesting as it goes +on, doesn’t it? That’s something to be thankful for.” + +“One does one’s best,” Sir Clinton retorted, unperturbed. “Now the +vanishing of that fellow could be accounted for in various ways, so +far as I could see. First of all, he might have slipped down the rope +into the little lake. That was what the rope was meant to suggest, +obviously. But unfortunately one of the hunters had the wit to keep an +eye on the lake; and it was pretty clear the man in white didn’t go +that way. Then there was the possibility of his being concealed in the +cave; but that was ruled out by the search of the cave. Thirdly, the +gang might have hit on the opening of one of the secret passages of +Ravensthorpe. Candidly, I ruled that out also. It seemed next door to +impossible. But if you exclude all these ways, then there seem to be +only two possibilities left. The first of these depends on the man in +white having a confederate in the cordon who let him slip through. But +the chance of a slip-through of that sort escaping the notice of the +rest of the hunters seemed very small. It seemed to me too risky a +business for them to have tried. + +“The final possibility was that the fugitive disguised himself as +something else. Well, what disguise would be the best? It’s a question +of camouflage, and they had only a few seconds to do the camouflaging. +You can’t dress up as a drain-pipe or a garden-seat in a couple of +seconds. So we come down to something that’s human in shape but isn’t +really human. In a garden, you might pretend to be a scarecrow; but up +on that terrace a scarecrow was out of the question. And then I +remembered the statues. + +“Suppose somebody had gone up there in the evening and had chiselled +one of the statues off its base. The broken marble could be heaved +over into the little lake and the bare pedestal would be left for the +fugitive.” + +“I ought to have thought of that,” Michael interjected. “It’s so +obvious when you think of it. But I didn’t think of anything like that +at the time.” + +“My impression then,” Sir Clinton continued, “was that the man in +white had white tights on under his Pierrot dress. His face and hands +were whitened, also; so that as soon as he stripped off his jacket and +trousers, he was sufficiently statuelike to pass muster in that light. +His eyes would have given him away in daylight; but under the moon +he’d only got to shut them and you’d hardly notice his whitened +eyelashes. In the few moments that you left him, while the cordon was +being formed, he took off his Pierrot things, wrapped them round the +weight he’d used in breaking the case’s glass, and pitched the lot +over the balustrade. That would account for the splash that was +heard.” + +Sir Clinton paused to light a cigarette. + +“That theory seemed to fit most of the evidence, as you see. It +explained why they’d chosen that particular place for the disappearing +trick; and it accounted for the splash as well. Further, it suggested +that there was a third man in the gang: the man who smashed down the +real statue. They’d leave that bit of work to the last moment for fear +of the damage being seen accidentally beforehand. Now Foss was at the +masked ball, so it wasn’t he. The man in white might need all his +powers in that race, so it was unlikely that he’d been up there on a +heavy bit of manual labour just then, for the shifting of that statue, +even in pieces, can have been no light affair. That suggested the use +of a third confederate. But I’m no wild enthusiast for theories. I +simply noted the coincidence that this theory demanded three men and +that Foss’s party contained three men: himself, the valet, and the +chauffeur. + +“Now, for reasons which I’ll give you immediately, it seemed likely +that this affair was only a first step in a more complicated plan. On +the spur of the moment, I decided it was worth while taking a hand. So +I got a patrol set round the spinney and issued orders that no one was +to go up to the terrace until I’d been over the ground. I took good +care that every one knew about this; and I took equally good care not +to go there myself. I rather advertised the thing, in fact. That was +to assure the fellows that no one had seen the empty pedestal. They +were pretty certain to rout about for information; and they’d hear on +all sides that no one had been up to the terrace. That left the thing +open for them to try again if they wanted to. + +“Another thing confirmed my notions. When the Inspector was dragging +the lake, he got a largish piece of marble out of it. That fitted in +with the view that the broken statue was down in the water in +fragments, hidden by the weeds. It all fitted fairly well, you see. + +“Then came another bit of evidence—two bits, in fact. The village +drunkard put abroad some yarn about seeing a White Man in the woods; +and a little girl saw a Black Man. That might have been mere fancy. Or +it might have been true enough. When the hunters had gone, the +pseudo-statue would come down off his pedestal. Suppose he wandered +off into the wood and was seen by old Groby. There’s your White Man. +But he couldn’t possibly get back to the house in white tights. He’d +want to get in as quietly as possible. What about a set of black +tights under the white ones? When he took off the white ones, he’d be +next door to invisible among shadows; and he’d be able to sneak in +through a window in the servants’ wing—in the shadow of the +house—fairly inconspicuously. Perhaps that’s how it happened.” + +“That was it,” the Inspector confirmed, looking up from a sheet of +paper which he was consulting from time to time. + +Sir Clinton acknowledged the confirmation but refused to lay much +stress on the point. + +“I thought it possible,” he said, “but it was merely a guess. In +itself the evidence wasn’t worth anything; but it fitted well enough +into the hypothesis I’d made.” + +He turned to the Inspector. + +“Did you get the five medallions as I expected?” + +Armadale put his hand into his pocket and withdrew the five discs of +gold, which he handed over to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton took +the sixth medallion from his own pocket and laid the whole set on the +table beside him. + +“They say,” he went on, “that the more _outré_ a crime is, the easier +it is to find a solution for it. I shouldn’t like to assert that in +every case. But there’s no harm in paying especial attention to the +bizarre points in an affair. If you cast your minds back to the case +as it presented itself to us on the night of the masked ball, you’ll +recall one point which undoubtedly seemed out of the common.” + +He glanced round the circle of listeners, but no one ventured to +interrupt. + +“Here was a gang of thieves bent on stealing something. One of +them—Foss—knew that in the show-case there were three medallions and +three replicas. The medallions were of enormous value; the replicas +were worth next to nothing. Foss, I was sure—and it turned out +afterwards that I was right—Foss knew that the real medallions were in +the top row and that the replicas were in the lower row.” + +He arranged the six discs on the table as he spoke. + +“And yet, with that knowledge, it was the replicas which they stole +and not the real medallions. Amazing, at first sight, isn’t it? To my +mind it was much more bizarre than the vanishing trick. And, +naturally, it was on that point in the case that I fixed my attention. +These weren’t blunderers, remember. The rest of the business showed +that they were anything but that. The way they had seized upon that +practical joke to serve their ends was quite enough to prove that +there was a good brain at the back of the thing. That joke wasn’t in +their original programme, and yet they’d taken it in their stride and +turned it to account in a most ingenious way. They weren’t the sort of +people who would make a mistake about the positions of the replicas. +If they took the electrotypes instead of the real things, it was +because the electrotypes were what they wanted. + +“Why did they want them? That question seemed to thrust itself forward +in front of all the others which suggested themselves in the case; and +it was that question that had to be answered before one could see +light anywhere.” + +He leaned forward in his chair and glanced at the two rows of +medallions on the table before him for a moment. + +“If one thinks about a point long enough, it often happens that all of +a sudden a fresh idea turns up and fits into its place. I think it was +probably the notion of the pseudo-statue that put me on to this +affair. There you had a fraud imposing itself on some people simply +because they had no reason to suppose that any fraud was intended. I +doubt if any of you people, Mr. Clifton, gave a second glance at these +statues that night. You simply regarded them as statues, because you +knew that statues were on all the pedestals in normal circumstances. +You were off your guard on that particular point. + +“That idea seemed to give me the key to this mysterious preference for +replicas. If they’d taken the real medallions that night, with all the +fuss that was made, then you Ravensthorpe people would have known at +once that the true Leonardos had gone; and, naturally, with the theft +of them dated to a minute, the risk was considerable. But suppose that +the theft of the replicas was only the first stage in the game, what +then? They had the replicas; you had the real medallions. Foss, as the +agent for Kessock, had every excuse for asking to see the medallions +again. + +“Now at that point there would come in the very same subconscious +assurance that played into their hands in the case of the statue. +Maurice would know for certain that the three things in his safe were +the real Leonardos. He’d fish them out for Foss to examine; and he’d +put them back in the safe without any minute inspection when Foss +handed them over. The replicas would be off the board—lost, gone for +good. He’d never think of them.” + +Sir Clinton glanced mischievously at Joan before continuing. + +“As it happens, I can do a little parlour conjuring myself. It comes +in handy when one has to live up to the part of Prospero or anything +like that. I know what one can do in the way of palming things, and so +forth. And as soon as I hit on this idea of the case, I saw how things +might be managed. Foss would fake up some excuse for handling the real +medallions; and during that handling, he’d substitute the replicas for +the Leonardos. Maurice, having apparently had the things under his +eyes all the time, would never think of examining the medals which he +got back from Foss’s hands. He’d simply put them back into the safe. +Foss would have the real things in his pocket; the deal would fall +through; Foss & Co. would retire gracefully . . . and it was a hundred +to one that no minute examination of the medallions in the safe would +be made for long enough. By that time it would be impossible either to +find Foss or to bring the thing home to him even if you did find him. + +“You see the advantages? First of all, the only theft would be one of +the replicas, which no one cared much about. Second, the date of the +real theft would be left doubtful. And third, this plan gave them any +amount of time to dispose of the real things before any suspicions +were aroused at all, as regards the genuine Leonardos. My impression +is that they had a market for them: some scoundrelly collector who’d +pay high to have the Leonardos even if he couldn’t boast publicly that +he had them.” + +“That’s correct, sir,” the Inspector interposed. “Brackley had a +market, but he wouldn’t tell me who the collector was.” + +Joan rose from her chair, crossed the room to a small table, and +solemnly came back with a tray. + +“Have some whisky and soda,” she suggested to Sir Clinton. + +“You find the tale rather dry?” he inquired solicitously. “Life’s like +that, you know. Inspector Armadale really needs this more than I do. +He’s been a long time out in the cold up yonder. I’ll take some later +on, if you don’t mind.” + +Joan presented the tray to the Inspector, who helped himself. + +Sir Clinton waited till he was finished with the siphon and then +continued, addressing himself to Joan: + +“Perhaps the story has lacked feminine interest up to this point. +We’ll hurry on to the day when you, Maurice, and Foss had your talk on +the terrace. Down below was Foss’s motor, serving two purposes. It was +there if they had to make a bolt, should things go wrong. It also +allowed the chauffeur, making a fake repair, to watch what went on in +the museum. I gather that he meant to keep an eye on his confederates. + +“At that moment, Foss had the three replicas in his pocket; and he was +looking for some excuse to carry out the exchange. He led the +conversation on to Japanese swords and so forth. I suspect Brackley +supplied the basis for that matter, enough to allow Foss to make a +show of information. Then Foss brought up the subject of his ‘poor +man’s collection’ of rubbings. I’ve no doubt he forced a card +there—induced Maurice to offer to let him take rubbings of the +medallions. That would be child’s play to an ex-conjurer with a smart +tongue. He got his way, anyhow. + +“But then came a complication he hadn’t expected. You, Joan, got +interested in this taking of rubbings. I admit it was hard lines on +the poor fellow. It was the last thing he could have anticipated.” + +“Thanks for the compliment!” Joan interjected, ironically. + +“Well, it wasn’t in the plan, anyhow,” Sir Clinton went on. “It meant +an extra pair of eyes to deceive when the exchange was made; and as +the exchange was the crucial move in the whole scheme, your +company—strange to say—was not appreciated. In fact, you made Mr. Foss +nervous. He wasn’t quite as cool as he could have wished; and my +reading of the situation is that he bungled his first attempt at the +substitution and had to prolong the agony by pretending to take a +second rubbing of the first medallion he got into his hands. + +“He had more luck with his second attempt, even with your eagle eyes +on him; and he stowed away Medallion Number One in one of the special +concealed pockets which he had in his clothes. But he desired +intensely to be relieved of your company; and he proceeded to draw +your attention to some one calling you. Of course that voice existed +solely in his own imagination. But it was quite as effective as a real +voice in getting you to leave the museum; and then there was one +onlooker the less to bother him in his sleight-of-hand.” + +Sir Clinton paused to light a cigarette before continuing. Inspector +Armadale, laying down his paper, turned to the Chief Constable as +though expecting at this point to hear something which he did not +already know. + +“The next stage is one of pure conjecture,” Sir Clinton went on. “Foss +is dead, and I haven’t had any opportunity of interrogating the other +actor: Marden.” + +Inspector Armadale smiled grimly at the way in which the Chief +Constable evaded any reference to the valet’s murder. + +“Possibly Inspector Armadale has a note or two on the matter,” Sir +Clinton pursued, “but even if he has, it can only be something like +‘what the soldier said,’ for Brackley could have merely second-hand +evidence at the best. Take the case as the Inspector and I found it. +Foss was dead, stabbed with the Muramasa sword. On its handle we found +the finger-prints of Maurice, and no others. Under Foss’s body we +found an undischarged automatic pistol with his finger-prints on the +butt. We noticed curious pockets in Foss’s clothes; but they were +empty. And we found no trace of any of the medallions about the place. +Maurice was _non est inventus_—we could see no sign of him. Marden had +cut his hand in a fall against one of the cases. He’d wrapped it up +with his handkerchief in a rough sort of way. The case containing the +Muramasa sword was open, and the sheath was lying in it, empty, of +course. + +“It’s only fair to Inspector Armadale to tell you that he suspected +Marden immediately. What I’m going to give you is merely the case as +it presented itself to me.” + +Armadale looked slightly flustered by this tribute to his +perspicacity. He glanced suspiciously at the Chief Constable, but Sir +Clinton’s face betrayed no ironical intention. + +“He may be pulling my leg again,” the Inspector reflected, “but at +least it’s decent of him to go out of his way to say that. It’s true +enough, but not exactly in the way that they’ll understand it.” + +“Marden had a very complete story to tell us. He’d come to the door of +the museum with a parcel which Foss had sent him to post. He’d found +the address was incomplete and came back to get Foss to finish it. He +stayed outside the door and he heard a quarrel between Maurice and +Foss, ending in a struggle. When he burst into the room, Maurice was +disappearing at the other end and Foss was dead on the floor. Then +Marden slipped on the parquet, fell against a show-case, cut his hand, +and tied it up in his handkerchief. Then he gave the alarm. + +“The parcel with the incomplete address was the first thing that +interested me. We opened it and we found in it a cheap wrist-watch in +perfect condition, apparently. The Inspector tried it for +finger-prints. There weren’t any of any sort, either on the watch or +the box in which it was enclosed. That seemed a bit rum to us both. + +“The only thing that seemed to fit the case was this. Suppose Marden +wanted to keep an eye on Foss. This parcel would give him an excuse of +bursting in on his employer at any moment. Assume that Marden himself +had made up the parcel and that Foss had nothing to do with it. It was +wrapped up in paper on which the address was written. You know how one +writes on a parcel—not the least like one’s normal handwriting if the +paper is crumpled a bit in the wrapping-up. That would make a bit of +rough forgery of Foss’s writing fairly easy. Further, if by any chance +the parcel fell into the hands of the police—as actually +happened—there was nothing inside to show that Foss hadn’t wrapped it +up himself. Nobody else’s finger-marks were on it at all. It had been +wrapped up with gloved hands. And the contents were innocent enough: +only a watch being sent to a watch-maker to be regulated, perhaps. If +it had been a letter, then to carry the thing through properly they’d +have had to forge Foss’s writing all the way through, in order to make +it look genuine if it happened to be opened. + +“But if that theory were adopted, a lot followed from it. First and +foremost, it meant that Marden was the boss and his nominal employer +was an underling in the gang, who would have to back up any story that +Marden liked to tell. Secondly, it pointed to the fact that Marden +didn’t trust Foss much. He wanted an excuse to get at Foss at any +moment—which is hardly in the power of a simple valet. When he thought +Foss needed watching, all he had to do was to trot up with his little +parcel, just to let Foss see that he was under observation. Thirdly, +this dodge was worked at a crucial stage in the game—when the replicas +were being exchanged for the Leonardo medallions. Doesn’t that suggest +that Marden didn’t trust Foss very much? It looks as if Marden was +none too sure that he’d get a square deal from Foss once the real +medallions had changed hands. Am I right in my guesses, Inspector?” + +“They didn’t trust Foss to play straight, sir. Brackley was quite open +about that.” + +“And it was Brackley’s idea? The parcel, I mean. It looks as if it +came from his mint.” + +“He said so, sir. Foss knew nothing about it, of course. It was a +surprise for him. They knew he’d have to pretend he knew all about it +when Marden brought it to him.” + +“That finishes the parcel,” Sir Clinton continued. “But it had +suggested one or two things, as you see. The most important thing, +from my point of view, was that this gang was not exactly a band of +brothers. Two of them suspected the third. Possibly the split was even +more extensive. + +“The next thing was the valet’s story. According to him, Maurice +stabbed Foss, after a quarrel which Marden couldn’t overhear clearly. +Unfortunately for that tale, the blow that killed Foss was a powerful +one. What Marden didn’t know was that Maurice had sprained his wrist +that morning. I doubt if a sprained wrist could have achieved that +stab. There was no proof, of course; but it seemed just a little +doubtful. Then Marden said that from the door he couldn’t catch the +words of the quarrel, although the voices were angry in tone. I tried +the experiment myself later; and it’s perfectly easy to overhear +what’s said in the museum from the position Marden said he was in. So +that was a deliberate lie. On that basis, one could eliminate most of +Marden’s tale as being under suspicion. + +“What really happened in the museum? Maurice is gone, Foss is dead, +Marden won’t tell. One has just to reconstruct the thing as plausibly +as one can. My impression—it’s only conjecture—is this. Marden was +listening at the door and he could see some parts of the room, since +the door was ajar. Foss had succeeded in substituting one replica for +a real medallion. To get Maurice’s eye off him, he asked to see the +Muramasa sword. Maurice went to get it, leaving Foss at his +rubbing—visible to Maurice all the time. Foss made the exchange of the +second replica at that moment. Maurice came back with the Muramasa +sword—and of course in doing that, he put his finger-prints on the +handle in drawing the blade from the sheath. Marden, at the door, saw +him do this and made a note of it. Just as Maurice came back to Foss, +he was suddenly taken ill. He had the third real medallion in one +hand; and as he passed Foss he picked up the two replicas—which he +believed to be the other two real medallions. He went to the safe and +hurriedly put on a shelf the two replicas; but the other medallion, in +his other hand, he forgot all about. He shut the safe and staggered +into the secret passage.” + +Inspector Armadale looked frankly incredulous. + +“Do people take ill all of a sudden like that?” he demanded. “Why +should he want to rush off all at once?” + +Sir Clinton swung round on him. + +“Ever suffered from rheumatism, Inspector? Or neuralgia? Or +toothache?” + +“No,” the Inspector replied with all the pride of perfect health. +“I’ve never had rheumatism and I’ve never had a tooth go wrong in my +life.” + +“No wonder you can’t understand, then,” Sir Clinton retorted. “Wait +till you have neuralgia in the fifth nerve, Inspector. Then, if you +don’t know yourself that you’re unfit for human society, your friends +will tell you, soon enough. If you get a bad attack, it’s +maddening—nothing less. Men have suicided on account of it often +enough,” he added, with a meaning glance at Armadale. + +A light broke in on the Inspector’s mind. + +“So that was it? No wonder I couldn’t put two and two together!” he +reflected to himself; but he made no audible comment. + +“Now we come to a mere leap in the dark,” Sir Clinton continued. “I +believe that as soon as Maurice was out of the way, Marden went into +the museum and demanded the medallions from Foss.” + +He put down his cigarette and leaned back in his chair. When he spoke +again, a faint tinge of pity seemed to come into his voice. + +“Foss was a poor little creature, hardly better than a rabbit in the +big jungle of crime. And the other two were something quite different: +carnivores, beasts of prey. They’d picked him out simply on account of +his one miserable talent: his little trick of legerdemain. He was only +a tool, poor beggar, and he knew it. I expect that when he saw what +sort of company he’d fallen into, he was terrified. That would account +for the pistol he carried. + +“His only chance of a fair deal from them lay in the fact that he had +the real medallions in his possession; and he meant to hold on to +them. And when Marden demanded them, Foss revolted. It must have been +like the revolt of a rabbit against a stoat. He hadn’t a chance. He +pulled out his pistol, I expect; and when that appeared, Marden saw +red. + +“But Marden, even in a fury, was a person with a very keen mind. +Perhaps he’d thought the thing over beforehand. He was evidently one +of these sub-human creatures with no respect for human life—the things +they label Apaches in Paris. When the pistol came out he was ready for +it. Foss, I’m sure, brandished the thing in an amateurish fashion—he +wasn’t a gunman of any sort. Probably he imagined that the mere sight +of the thing would bring Marden to heel. + +“Marden had his handkerchief out at once. Probably he had it ready in +his hand. He picked up the Muramasa sword, leaving no finger-marks of +his own on it through the handkerchief. And . . . that was the end of +Foss.” + +Sir Clinton leaned over, selected a fresh cigarette with a certain +fastidiousness, and lighted it before going on with his tale. + +“That was the end of his feeble little attempt to get the better of +his confederate. The money in his pocket-book didn’t give him the +escape he’d hoped for. All his precautions to leave no clues to his +real identity played straight into the hands of Marden and Brackley. + +“Marden’s immediate problem, once he’d come out of his fury, was +difficult enough. I suspect that his first move was to search Foss and +get the medallions out of his pockets. Then he was faced with the +blood on his hands and on his handkerchief. He had his plan made +almost in a moment. He went across, deliberately slipped—he was an +artist in detail, evidently—smashed against the glass of one of the +cases, cut his hand, and then he felt fairly secure. He wrapped up the +wounds in his handkerchief—and there was the case complete to account +for any stray blood anywhere on his clothes. He tried the safe, for +fear Maurice was lurking inside; and then he gave the alarm.” + +Sir Clinton glanced inquiringly at the Inspector, but Armadale shook +his head. + +“Brackley had nothing to say about all that, sir. Marden gave him no +details.” + +“It’s mostly guess-work,” Sir Clinton warned his audience. “All that +one can say for it is that it fits the facts fairly well.” + +“And is that brute in the house now?” Una Rainhill demanded. “I shan’t +go to sleep if he is.” + +“Two constables were detached to arrest him,” Sir Clinton assured her. +“He’s not on the premises, you may count on that.” + +Inspector Armadale’s face took on a wooden expression, the result of +suppressing a sardonic smile. + +“Well, he does manage to tell the truth and convey a wrong impression +with it,” he commented inwardly. + +“Now consider the state of affairs after the Foss murder,” Sir Clinton +went on. “Marden and Brackley were in a pretty pickle, it seems to me. +They had three medallions which Marden had got when he rifled Foss’s +body. But _they didn’t know what they’d got_. They weren’t in the +secret of the dots on the replicas. For all they knew—knew for +certain, I mean—Foss might have bungled the affair and the things they +had might be merely replicas. If so, they were no good. I can’t tell +the difference between a medallion and an electrotype myself; but I +believe an expert can tell you whether a thing’s been struck with a +die or merely plated from a mould. These two scoundrels, I take it, +weren’t experts. They couldn’t tell which brand of article they had in +their hands. + +“There was only one thing to be done. They’d have to get the whole six +things into their hands, and then they’d be sure of having the three +medallions. So they fell back on their original scheme of plain +burglary. That, I’m sure, had been their first plan. They’d sent their +American confederate to see the safe a long while ago; and no doubt +he’d reported that it was an old pattern. Hence the otophone, by means +of which they could pick the combination lock. The otophone was still +on the premises: I’d left it for them. But they were up against one +thing. + +“I’d put a guard night and day on the museum. That blocked any attempt +at burglary unless they were prepared to take the tremendous risk of +manhandling the guard. If the door had merely been locked, I don’t +think it would have given them much trouble. I’m pretty sure there’s a +very good outfit of burglar’s tools mixed up with the tool-kit of the +car, where it would attract no attention. But the guard was a +difficulty in the way.” + +Without making it obvious to the others, Sir Clinton made it clear to +Armadale that the next part of his story was meant specially for the +Inspector. + +“I’d given you the view I held of the case at that point. I felt +fairly certain I was right. But if I’d been asked to put that case +before a jury, I certainly would have backed out. It was mostly +surmise: accurate enough, perhaps, but with far too little support. A +jury—quite rightly—wants facts and not theories. Could one even +convince them that the vanishing trick had been carried through as I +believed it had? It would have been a bit of a gamble. And I don’t +believe in that sort of gamble. I wanted the thing proved up to the +hilt. And the best way to do that was to catch them actually at work. + +“There seemed to me just one weak point in the armour. I counted on a +split between the two remaining confederates, if I could only get a +wedge in somehow. I guessed, rightly or wrongly, that the Foss murder +would strike the chauffeur as a blunder, and that there might be the +makings of friction there. The chauffeur’s watching the museum under +cover of the fake repair to the hood suggested that he mistrusted the +others. I suspected that Marden might have stuck to the stuff he’d +taken off Foss’s body. If Brackley hadn’t got his share of that swag, +he’d be in a weak position. I gambled on that: everything to gain and +nothing much to lose. I had the chauffeur up for examination again; +and when I gave him an opening, he deliberately gave his friend away +by letting me know he’d seen Marden and Foss together just before the +murder. And when he did that, I blurted out to Inspector Armadale that +the guards on the terrace and the museum door were to be discontinued. +Brackley went off with those two bits of exclusive information. He +didn’t tell them to Marden. He saw his way to make the balance even +between himself and his confederate. If he kept his news to himself, +he could burgle the museum safe; get the remainder of the six +medallions; and then he’d be sure of getting his share of the profits. +Neither of them could do without the other in that case. + +“In actual practice, Brackley went a stage farther than I’d +anticipated. He schemed to get Marden’s loot as well as the stuff from +the safe. I needn’t go into that side-issue.” + +Again Inspector Armadale suppressed his amusement at the way in which +Sir Clinton chose to present the truth. + +“The rest of the tale’s short enough,” Sir Clinton went on. “Brackley +determined to burgle the safe. If pursued, he decided, he’d repeat the +vanishing trick on the terrace; for I’d convinced him, apparently, +that the _modus operandi_ of it was still unknown to us. Probably he +went up there and satisfied himself that no one came near, after the +patrol was taken off. He got himself up for the part: whitened his +face; put on white tights; covered himself with Marden’s waterproof as +a disguise and to conceal his fancy dress; put on a big black mask to +hide the paint on his face, lest he should give the show away if an +interruption came. And so he walked straight into the trap I’d laid +for him. + +“We saw the whole show from start to finish. I even let Cecil and Mr. +Clifton into the business, so that we’d have some evidence apart from +police witnesses. We saw the whole show from start to finish.” + +Sir Clinton broke off his story and glanced at his watch. + +“We’ve kept Inspector Armadale up to a most unconscionable hour,” he +said, apologetically. “We really mustn’t detain him till sunrise. +Before you go, Inspector, you might tell us if my solution fits the +confession you got out of Brackley—in the later stages, I mean.” + +Inspector Armadale saw his dismissal and rose to his feet. + +“There’s really nothing in the confession that doesn’t tally, sir. +Differences in detail, of course; but you were right in the main +outlines of the affair.” + +Sir Clinton showed a faint satisfaction. + +“Well, it’s satisfactory enough to hear that. By the way, Inspector, +you’d better take my car. It’s in the avenue still. Send a man up with +it, please, when you’ve done with it. There’s no need for you to walk +after a night like this.” + +Armadale thanked him; declined Cecil’s offer of another whisky and +soda; and took his departure. When he had gone, Cecil threw a glance +of inquiry at the Chief Constable. + +“Do you feel inclined to tell us what you made of my doings? I noticed +that you didn’t drag them out in front of the Inspector.” + +Sir Clinton acquiesced in the suggestion. + +“I think that’s fairly plain sailing; but correct me if I go wrong. +When you heard of Maurice’s disappearance, you saw that something was +very far amiss. You had a fair idea where he might be, but you didn’t +want to advertise the Ravensthorpe secrets. So you came back one night +and went down there. I don’t know whether you were surprised or not +when you found him; but in any case, you decided that there was no +good giving the newspapers a titbit about secret passages. So you took +him out into the glade by the other entrance to the tunnel; and then +you came up to Ravensthorpe as though you’d come by the first train. +The Inspector tripped you over that point, but it didn’t matter much. +He doesn’t love you, though, I suspect. I’d no desire to make matters +worse by interfering between you; for you seemed able to look after +yourself. Wasn’t that the state of affairs?” + +“There or thereabouts,” Cecil admitted. “It seemed the best thing to +do, in the circumstances.” + +Sir Clinton showed obvious distaste for discussing the matter further. +He turned to the girls. + +“It’s high time you children were in bed. Dawn’s well up in the sky. +You’ve had all the excitement you need, for the present; and a good +sleep seems indicated.” + +He gave a faint imitation of a stifled yawn. + +“That sets me off,” said Una Rainhill, frankly. “I can hardly keep my +eyes open. Come along, Joan. It’s quite bright outside and I’m not +afraid to go to bed now.” + +Joan rubbed her eyes. + +“This sort of thing takes more out of one than twenty dances,” she +admitted. “The beginning of the night was a bit too exciting for +everyday use. How does one say ‘Good-night’ in proper form when the +sun’s over the horizon? I give it up.” + +With a gesture of farewell, she made her way to the door, followed by +Una. When they had disappeared, Sir Clinton turned to Cecil +Chacewater. + +“Care to walk down the avenue a little to meet my car? The fresh air +and all that. I rather like the dawn, myself, when it happens to come +my way without too much exertion.” + +Cecil saw that the Chief Constable was giving him an opening if he +cared to take it. + +“I’ll come along with you till you meet the car.” + +Sir Clinton took leave of Michael Clifton, who obviously intended to +go to bed immediately. As soon as he was well clear of the house, +Cecil turned to the Chief Constable. + +“You skated over thin ice several times in that yarn of yours. +Especially the bits about Maurice. Toothache! Neuralgia! That infernal +Inspector of yours swallowed it all down like cat-lap. From his face, +you’d have thought he picked up an absolute cert. that no one else +could see. I almost laughed, at that point.” + +He changed suddenly to a serious tone. + +“How did you spot what was really wrong with Maurice?” + +“One thing led to another,” Sir Clinton confessed. “I didn’t hit on it +all at once. The Fairy Houses set me thinking at the start. One +doesn’t keep toys like that in good repair merely on account of some +old legend. They were quite evidently meant for use. And then, Cecil, +you seemed to have some private joke of your own—not a particularly +nice joke either—about them. That set me thinking. And after that, you +dropped some remark about Maurice having specialized in family +curses.” + +“You seem to have a devil of a memory for trifles,” Cecil commented, +in some surprise. + +“Trifles sometimes count for a good deal in my line,” Sir Clinton +pointed out. “One gets into the habit of docketing them, almost +without thinking about it. I must have pigeon-holed your talk about +the Fairy Houses quite mechanically. Then later on I remembered that +these things were dotted all over your estate and nowhere else. On +their own ground, the Chacewaters were always within easy distance of +one or other of these affairs. Ancient family curse; curious little +buildings very handy; one brother grinning—yes, you did grin, and +nastily too—at them, when you know he hates another brother like +poison. It was quite a pretty little problem. And so . . .” + +“And so?” demanded Cecil, as Sir Clinton stopped short. + +“And so I put it out of my mind. It wasn’t the sort of thing I cared +to think much about in connection with Ravensthorpe,” Sir Clinton +said, bluntly. “Besides, it was no affair of mine.” + +“And then?” + +“Then came Michael Clifton’s story of finding Maurice in one of these +Fairy Houses. And the details about the queer state Maurice was in +when he was found. That came up in connection with a crime; and crimes +are my business. Why does a fellow crawl away into a place like that? +Why does he resent being dragged out of it? Why won’t he even take the +trouble to get up? These were the kind of questions that absolutely +bristled over the whole affair. One couldn’t help getting an inkling. +But that inkling threw no light on the crime in hand, so it was no +affair of mine. I dropped it. But . . .” + +“Yes?” + +“Maurice wasn’t an attractive character, I’ll admit that. I loathed +the way he was going on. But I like to look on the best side of people +if I can. In my line, one sees plenty of the other side—more than +enough. And by and by I began to see that perhaps all Maurice’s doings +could be explained, if they couldn’t be excused. He was off his +balance.” + +“He was, poor devil,” Cecil concurred, with some contrition in his +tone. + +“Then came the time I forced you to open the secret passage. Your +methods were the very worst you could have chosen, Cecil. I knew +perfectly well that you hadn’t done anything to Maurice. You’re not +the fratricidal type. But you very evidently had something that you +wanted to conceal behind that door. You were afraid of my spotting +something. The Inspector jumped to the conclusion that it was murder +you were hushing up. By that time I had a pretty good notion that it +was the Ravensthorpe family secret. Once I saw that passage of yours, +dwindling away to almost nothing, the thing was clear enough. With the +Fairy House clue as well, the thing was almost certain. And finally, +you gave the show away completely by what you said beside Maurice’s +body.” + +“Chuchundra, you mean?” + +“Yes. I remembered—another of these docketed trifles—just what +Chuchundra was. He was the muskrat that tried to make up his mind to +run into the middle of the room, but he never got there. Then I asked +you if the trouble began with A. Of course it did. Agoraphobia. I +suppose when Maurice was a kid he had slight attacks of it—hated to +move about in an open room and preferred to sidle along by the walls +if possible. That was the start of the nickname, wasn’t it?” + +Cecil assented with a nod. + +“It evidently cropped up in your family now and again. Hence the Fairy +Houses—harbours of refuge when attacks came on. And that underground +cell, where a man could shut himself up tight and escape the horror of +open spaces.” + +“I’d really no notion how bad it was with Maurice,” Cecil hastened to +say. “It must have been deadly when it drove him to shoot himself.” + +“Something beyond description, I should say,” Sir Clinton said, +gravely. + +He glanced over the wide prospects of the park and then raised his +eyes to where great luminous clouds were sailing in stately procession +across the blue. + +“Looks peaceful, Cecil, doesn’t it? Makes one rather glad to be alive, +when one gets into a scene like this. And yet, to poor Maurice it was +a mere torture-chamber of nausea and torment, a horror that drove him +to burrowing into holes and crannies, anywhere to escape from the +terrors of the open sky. I don’t suppose that we normal people can +even come near the thing in our imaginations. It’s too rum for our +minds—outside everything we know. Poor devil! No wonder he went off +the rails a bit in the end.” + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +This transcription follows the text of the edition published by +Grosset & Dunlap in February, 1928. However, the following alterations +have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors +in the text: + + * “usally” was corrected to “usually” (Chapter I). + * “sufficent” was corrected to “sufficient” (Chapter I). + * “inqiringly” was corrected to “inquiringly” (Chapter I). + * “deadful” was corrected to “dreadful” (Chapter II). + * “artifical” was corrected to “artificial” (Chapter II). + * “reassurred” was corrected to “reassured” (Chapter III). + * “even since” was corrected to “ever since” (Chapter IV). + * “That’s was” was corrected to “That was” (Chapter VI). + * “her’s” was corrected to “hers” (Chapter IX). + * “lot’s of” was corrected to “lots of” (Chapter XI). + * “Froggart” was corrected to “Froggatt” (Chapter XIII). + * “spiney” was corrected to “spinney” (Chapter XIV). + * “orginal” was corrected to “original” (Chapter XIV). + * “out of question” was corrected to “out of the question” + (Chapter XV). + * Three occurrences of mismatched quotation marks were repaired. + * One occurrence of a missing em dash was repaired. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75407 *** |