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Title: Ronald Standish (1933)
Author: 'Sapper' (Herman Cyril McNeile) (1888-1937)
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Language:  English
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Title: Ronald Standish (1933)
Author: 'Sapper' (Herman Cyril McNeile) (1888-1937)




THE CREAKING DOOR
THE MISSING CHAUFFEUR
THE HAUNTED RECTORY
A MATTER OF TAR
THE HOUSE WITH THE KENNELS
THE THIRD MESSAGE
MYSTERY OF THE SLIP COACH
THE SECOND DOG
THE MAN IN YELLOW
THE MAN WITH SAMPLES
THE EMPTY HOUSE





THE CREAKING DOOR

Chapter 1.

Ronald Standish lay back in his chair with a worried look on his usually
cheerful face. In his hand he held a letter, which he read over for the
second time before tossing it across to me.

"The devil and all, Bob," he said, shaking his head. "From what I saw in
the papers a clearer case never existed."

I glanced at the note.

Dear Mr. Standish (it ran),--I do hope you will forgive a complete
stranger writing to you, but I am in desperate trouble. You will probably
remember a very great friend of mine--Isabel Blount, whom you helped some
months ago. Well, it was she who advised me to come to you. Would it be
possible for you to see me to-morrow after noon at three o'clock? I shall
come, anyway, on the chance of finding you disengaged.

Yours sincerely,

KATHERINE MOODY.

"Which means to-day, in a quarter of an hour," he said, as I laid down
the note.

"And I fear it's pretty hopeless."

"You know who she is, then?" I remarked.

He nodded gravely and crossed to a corner of the room where a pile of
newspapers was lying on a chair. And as I watched him I wondered, not for
the first time what had made him take up the profession he had. A born
player of games, wealthy, and distinctly good-looking, he seemed the last
person in the world to become a detective. And yet that was what he was
when one boiled down to hard facts. True, he picked and chose his cases,
and sometimes for months on end he never handled one at all. But sooner
or later some crime would interest him, and then he would drop everything
until he had either solved it or was beaten. With the official police he
was on excellent terms, which was not to be wondered at in view of the
fact that on many occasions he had put them on the right track. At times
some new man was tempted to smile contemptuously at the presumption of an
amateur pitting himself against the official force, but the smile
generally faded before long. For there was no denying that he had a most
uncanny flair for picking out the points that mattered from a mass of
irrelevant detail.

"It's bad to prejudge a case," he remarked, coming back with two papers,
"but this looks pretty damaging on the face of it."

He pointed to a paragraph, and I ran my eye down it.

"SHOCKING TRAGEDY IN LEICESTERSHIRE BRUTAL MURDER OF YOUNG ARTIST

"A crime of unparalleled ferocity was committed yesterday in the grounds
of Mexbury Hall, the home of Mr. John Playfair, who has lived there for
some years with his ward, Miss Katherine Moody, and her companion.
Standing amongst the trees, some way from the Hall and out of sight of
it, there is a summer-house which commands a magnificent view over the
surrounding country. And it was in this summer-house that the tragedy
occurred.

"It appears that for some weeks past Mr. Playfair has allowed a young
artist named Bernard Power to use it as a studio. Yesterday, on returning
in the afternoon from a motor trip, Mr. Playfair, while taking a stroll
in the grounds, happened to pass by the summer-house, where he was
horrified to see a red stream dripping sluggishly down the wooden steps
that led to the door. He rushed in, to find the unfortunate young man
lying dead on the floor with his head literally crushed in like a broken
egg-shell.

"Touching nothing, he rushed back to the house, where he telephoned for
the police and a doctor, who arrived post-haste.

"The doctor stated, after examining the body, that Mr. Power had been
dead about five hours, which placed the time of the crime at ten o'clock
that morning. Then, with the help of Inspector Savage, who has charge of
the case, the body was moved, and instantly the weapon with which the
deed was done was discovered. A huge stone weighing over fourteen pounds
was lying on the floor, and adhering to it were blood and several hairs
that obviously had belonged to the dead man. Mr. Playfair explained that
the stone had originally come from an old heap which had been left over
when the foundations of the summer-house had been laid. This particular
one, he went on to say, had been used as a weight on the floor to prevent
the door from banging when the artist wanted it open: he had suggested it
to him some weeks previously.

"It is clear that a particularly brutal murder has been committed, as any
possibility of accident or suicide can be ruled out. The murderer must
have approached from behind while the unfortunate young man was at work
on his picture, and bashed in his head with one blow.

"The police are in possession of several clues, and sensational
developments are expected."

I looked at the date. It was yesterday's paper. Then I looked at the
other paragraph he was indicating.

"These are the sensational developments," said Ronald, "which are
doubtless responsible for Miss Moody's letter."

"The police have lost no time in following up the clues they obtained in
the shocking tragedy that occurred the day before yesterday at Mexbury
Hall. It will be recalled that the body of a young artist named Bernard
Power was found in the summer house with the head battered in in a
fashion which proved conclusively that a singularly brutal murder had
been committed.

"Yesterday Inspector Savage arrested a neighbouring landowner, Mr. Hubert
Daynton, on the charge of being the murderer. It is understood that a
stick belonging to the accused was found in the summer and the butt end
of a cigarette of a brand he habitually smokes was discovered lying on
the floor.

"The accused protests his complete ignorance of the affair, a further
developments are awaited hourly. Needless to say, Mr. Playfair, in whose
grounds the tragedy occurred, is much upset, as the dead man was a
protegé of his."

I put down the paper and glanced at my companion.

"It certainly seems pretty bad for Mr. Hubert Daynton," I said. "He seems
to have gone out of his way to leave the evidence lying about."

"Exactly," Standish remarked. "Which may be a point in his favour.
However, there goes the bell. We'll hear what Miss Moody has to say."

The door opened, and his man ushered in a delightfully pretty girl of
about twenty-one or two, who looked from one to the other of us with a
worried expression on her face.

"Sit down, Miss Moody," said Ronald. "And let me introduce a great pal of
mine, Bob Miller. You can say anything you like in front of him."

"I suppose you know what I've come about, Mr. Standish," cried the girl.

"I know what has appeared in the papers," said Ronald, "which summarises
into the fact that Hubert Daynton has been arrested for the murder of an
artist called Bernard Power in the summer-house of your guardian's
place."

"But he never did it, Mr. Standish," she cried, clasping her hands
together.

"So, I gather, he states. At the same time, the police seem to think
otherwise. Now will you be good enough to fill in all the gaps, as far as
you can, which have been left by the papers? And one thing I beg of
you--don't keep anything back. It is absolutely imperative that I should
have all the facts, even if they appear to you to be damaging."

"I will conceal nothing," she said. "You know from the papers that I live
at Mexbury Hall with my guardian, and Hubert Daynton has the neighbouring
house, Gadsby. Tower. He was often over with us, and we did the same
thing at his place--"

"Was?" put in Ronald. "Do you imply anything by using the past tense?"

"During recent months matters have become a little strained," she said, a
slightly heightened colour coming into her cheeks. "To be brief, he
wanted to marry me, and my guardian didn't like the idea."

"Why not?" said Ronald bluntly. "Was there any particular reason, or just
general disapproval?"

"I don't know," she answered, "Uncle John--he's not really any
relation, of course--is very old-fashioned in some ways, and has the most
absurd ideas about what girls ought to be told. But one thing is certain:
the moment Hubert made it clear that he wanted to marry me, Uncle John's
manner towards him changed completely."

"One further point, Miss Moody," said Ronald, with a faint smile. "What
were your feelings on the subject?"

"Well," she answered frankly, "I didn't say I would and I didn't say I
wouldn't. He's rather a dear, and I like him immensely, but I can't say
I'm in love with him. In addition, I'm terribly fond of Uncle John who
has been a sort of mother and father to me, and the fact that he
disapproved did influence me. There was an idea at the back of my mind, I
think, that in time I might get him to change his mind about Hubert,
which would have made a difference."

"I understand perfectly," said Ronald. "And that was the condition of
affairs between you and Hubert Daynton at the time of his arrest?"

"I'm afraid it wasn't," she answered slowly. "Two months ago Bernard
Power came to stay at the village inn. He was an artist, as you know, and
in some way or other he got to know Uncle John. Now, my guardian is a
photographic maniac--it is the one absorbing hobby of his life--and as
Bernard went in for landscape work they seemed to find something in
common. He was continually asking Bernard to dinner; and fitted him up,
as you read in the papers, in the summer-house as a studio."

She paused for a moment, and glanced from Ronald to me.

"The poor man is dead now," she went on, "and if it wasn't for Hubert's
sake, I'd say nothing. But there's no getting away from the fact that
Bernard Power was a nasty bit of work. You both of you look thoroughly
uman, and you'll know what I mean when I say he was always pawing one,
touching one's arm or something like that--a thing I loathe. But matters
came to a head three days ago. I happened to be passing the summer-house
when he called out to me to come and have a look at his picture.

"Without thinking, I went in. To do him justice, he was a very clever
painter. And before I knew where I was, he'd seized me in his arms and
was trying to kiss me. I was perfectly furious. I'd never given him the
slightest encouragement. However, after I'd smacked his face as hard as I
could, he let me go. And then I told him a few home truths and left."

Again she paused, and bit her lip.

"I left, Mr. Standish, and, as evil fortune would have it, I ran into
Hubert paying one of his very infrequent visits, He had come over to see
me about a spaniel I wanted. If only it had been an hour later it
wouldn't have mattered; I should have recovered. As it was he saw, of
course, that I was angry, and realising I'd come from the direction of
the summer-house, he jumped at once to the correct conclusion.

"'Has that damned painter been up to his monkey tricks again?' he cried.

"And very foolishly I told him what had happened. He was furious, and
there's no denying that Hubert has a very nasty temper when roused. I
regretted having said anything the moment the words were out of my mouth,
but then it was too late. And it was only with the greatest difficulty
that I prevented him going on then and there to put it across Bernard
Power. I told him that I was quite capable of looking after myself, and
that the matter was over and done with.

"In the middle of our conversation Uncle John joined us. He saw at once
that something was up and asked what had happened. Hubert told him and he
didn't mince his words, which got Uncle John's back up. And finally the
two of them very nearly had a row.

"Uncle John's point of view was that he was the proper person for me to
go to, and that it was no business of Hubert's. Hubert on the contrary
said it was any decent man's business if some swab of a painter kissed a
girl against her will. And then he made the damning statement that he
personally proposed to interview Mr. Bernard Power the following
morning."

"Did anyone else hear that remark besides you and your guardian?" asked
Ronald.

"No one," she said. "Of that I'm positive."

"Why did he specify the following morning? Why didn't he go right away?"

"He had people coming to lunch, and it was getting late."

"And the following morning was the morning of the murder," said Ronald
thoughtfully. "Now let's hear exactly what Daynton says took place."

"He says that he started from Gadsby Tower at half-past nine and walked
over to the summer-house. He found Bernard Power had no yet arrived, so
he lit a cigarette and waited for him--a cigarette which he admits he
threw on the floor and put out with his shoe.

"Then Bernard Power came in, and apparently Hubert went for him like a
pickpocket. He called him a leprous mess, and a few more things of that
sort, and they had a fearful quarrel, in the course of which Hubert put
his stick up against the wall, because he was afraid he might hit the
other with it, and he was a much smaller man than Hubert. Then he left,
and went back to his own house, which he reached at twenty past ten."

Ronald Standish nodded thoughtfully.

"Forgetting all about his stick," he remarked. "A very important point,
that."

"He was so excited, Mr. Standish," said the girl. "I know the police
think as you do, but surely it's understandable"

"My dear Miss Moody," he said with a smile, "you quite mistake my
meaning. Now that I've heard your full story I think it tells enormously
in his favour. It is certain that he must have discovered he had left his
stick in the summer-house on his way back to Gadsby Tower. There is
nothing that a man notices quicker. If, then, he had murdered Power he
would at all costs have had to go back to get it. To leave such a damning
piece of evidence lying about was tantamount to putting a noose round his
neck. But what was more natural than that he, rather than renew the
quarrel, should decide to leave it there, and get it some other time?"

"Then you don't think he did it?" she cried eagerly.

"What I may think," said Ronald guardedly, "is one thing. What we've got
to prove is another. If he didn't do it--who did? The crime, according to
the doctor's evidence, must have been committed very shortly after
Daynton left the summer-house. It is, therefore, I think, a justifiable
assumption that the murderer was near by during the interview, heard the
quarrel, and seized the opportunity of throwing suspicion on somebody
else. So that at any rate one line of exploration must be to find out if
this man Power had an enemy who was so bitter against him that he
wouldn't stick at murder. And from what you tell me of his manners with
you, it would not be surprising if he has gone even further with some
other girl. In which case there may be a man who was not as forbearing as
Daynton."

"Then you'll help Hubert?" she cried.

"Certainly, Miss Moody," he said. "Now that I've heard the details my
opinion is quite different. Bob and I will come down with you this
afternoon. But before we start there are just one or two points I'd like
cleared up. First--what were your movements on the day of the murder?"

"I stayed in the house till lunch; and in the afternoon I played tennis
at a house five miles away."

"You had no communication with Daynton of any sort--over the telephone,
for instance?"

"None."

"And Mr. Playfair--what did he do?"

"He went out on one of his photography expeditions. He started in the car
about half-past eight in the morning, and was not back till after lunch."

"One last point. You have already said that no one could have overheard
the conversation between the three of you on the drive. But did you by
any chance mention it to anybody afterwards?"

"No," she said. "I said nothing about it. And I'm sure Uncle John didn't
either, as he was in the whole afternoon fiddling about with his latest
camera."

"Then it must either have been an unfortunate coincidence for Bernard
Power or--" He broke off and stared out of the window thoughtfully.

"Come along," he said, rousing himself at length. "Let's go down and look
at this summer-house. I hope your nerves are good, Miss Moody. Bob
generally drives, and never at less than sixty miles an hour."



Chapter 2.

The grounds of Mexbury Hall were extensive, and the summer-house was a
good quarter of a mile from the Hall itself. Trees surrounded it on three
sides, affording admirable cover for anyone who wished to hide. The
fourth was open, and gave a magnificent view over the country to the
south. It was simply built of wood, with a sunblind that could be let
down over the big window.

A policeman was on guard as we approached, and he looked doubtful when
Ronald explained his business.

"Inspector's orders, sir, were that no one was to be allowed in. Still, I
suppose you're different."

"Come in yourself, officer, and you'll see that I'm not going to touch
anything. I take it nothing has been moved except the body?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Were you here yourself when the body was found?"

"I came with the Inspector, sir."

Ronald knelt down by the wooden steps leading to the door, and carefully
examined the ominous red stain. Then, with a shake of his head, he got
up.

"Too late," he said, "Nothing to be got out of that now."

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Then, according to his
invariable custom, he stood absolutely motionless, with only his eyes
moving from side to side as he absorbed every detail. On the easel stood
the half-finished picture spattered with the dead man's blood. The
overturned chair still lay where it had fallen as the artist had crashed
to the floor.

"Not much doubt about what happened, sir," remarked the constable. "Never
seen a clearer case in all ray service. Fair battered to pieces, he was,
poor gentleman."

"What's the meaning of this, Roberts?" said a gruff voice from outside.
"I ordered you to admit no one."

Ronald Standish swung round. A choleric looking man in uniform was
standing in the doorway.

"Inspector Savage, I take it?" Standish said genially. "I have been
commissioned by Miss Moody to make a few inquiries on behalf of Mr.
Daynton."

He held out his card, and the Inspector grunted.

"I've heard of you, Mr. Standish," he remarked. "And if I was you I'd
wash my hands of it. You'll get no credit out of this case."

"Perhaps not," agreed Ronald. "Still, when a lady asks one to do
something for her it is hard to refuse."

"Kinder in the long run," said the other. "There's no good in raising
false hopes in her mind. You've seen in the newspapers what we've
discovered. What you may not know is that Daynton admits to having had a
furious quarrel with the murdered man at the very time the deed was
done."

"It was that fact, amongst others, my dear Inspector, that caused me to
take up the case. Surely no one out of a lunatic asylum would go out of
his way to damn himself so completely if he had done the murder. His
stick, I admit, he couldn't get over, since he was imbecile enough to
leave it here; the cigarette stump is awkward. But why he should then add
a quarrel which no one had heard is really more than one can swallow."

He was swinging the door backwards and forwards as he spoke, and I saw by
the glint in his eye that he was hot on something.

"Very clever, Mr. Standish," laughed the Inspector, "but not quite clever
enough. Both Miss Moody and Mr. Playfair knew of his intention. So how
could he deny it? I say, sir, must you go on making that squeaking noise
with the door?"

"Both ways, you notice," said Ronald. "It creaks when it opens and it
creaks when it shuts. Moreover, it shuts of its own accord. Very
interesting."

We stared at him in amazement, but he took no notice, and at last the
Inspector turned to go, with a significant glance at me.

"By the way, Inspector," said Ronald suddenly, "had the dead man got a
brush in his hand?"

"No; but one was lying on the floor beside him."

"Was there any paint on it?"

For a moment the Inspector looked nonplussed.

"I really couldn't tell you at the moment," he said, and Ronald shook his
head.

"My dear fellow," he remarked, "you surprise me. Get hold of it and
examine it. And if there's paint on it, sit down and think things over,
bearing in mind the fact that the door creaks."

"And if there isn't paint on it?" said the other with ponderous sarcasm.

"There will be," answered Ronald quietly.

"Anything else you can suggest?"

"Yes; but I don't think you're likely to do it."

"What's that?"

"Release that unfortunate chap, Daynton."

"Release Daynton?" gasped the other.

"Why not? For I can assure you that he had no more to do with the murder
of Bernard Power than you or I had."

"Then who did do it?"

"I promise you shall know at the first possible moment," said Ronald.

"Well, until I do," grinned the other, "Mr. Daynton remains under lock
and key."

Ronald was silent as we strolled back to the house, and I knew him too
well to interrupt his reverie.

"By the way, Bob," he said suddenly, as we neared the door, "say
nothing--even to Miss Moody--about our thinking Daynton innocent. It
might get round to the servants."

She met us on the drive, and with her was a man of about forty-five, who
we correctly surmised was her guardian, Mr. Playfair.

"Well," she cried, after introducing us, "what luck?"

Ronald shook his head. "Early days yet, Miss Moody," he said gravely.
"I've seen the Inspector, and I'm bound to confess it doesn't look too
good."

"I blame myself very much," said her guardian, "but never in my wildest
imagination did I dream of such a tragedy occurring."

"In what way do you blame yourself, Mr. Playfair?" asked Ronald.

"In going out so early that morning. I ought to have waited here and been
present at the interview. Hubert is such a hot headed chap."

"But, Uncle John, he didn't do it!" cried the girl.

"My dear," said the other sadly, "I wish I could think so. And let us
hope that Mr. Standish succeeds in proving it. Candidly," he went on as
she left us, "I wish she hadn't been to you. You understand how I mean
it. The case is so painfully clear that I fear even you can do no good.
And the sooner she realises it the better."

"Perhaps so," agreed Ronald. "As you say, it's a pity you went out as
early as you did."

"Well, I wanted to get to Comber Ness by noon, and it's very nearly a
four hours' run. I don't know whether my ward has told you," he went on,
with a faint smile, "but I'm a most enthusiastic photographer. And I have
just acquired a new toy. Are you by any chance interested?"

"Very," said Ronald. "I do a bit that way myself."

"Then come and have a drink, and I will show it to you." He led the way
into the house and we followed him. "It is a stereoscopic camera," he
explained, as he took it off a table in the hall. "And doubtless you know
the principle on which it works. The two lenses are the same distance
apart as one's eyes, and two negatives are taken at each exposure. Then
by making positives and holding them in one of those machines that you
probably remember from your early youth, the whole thing stands out as in
real life."

"And you went over to Comber Ness to get a photograph," said Ronald.

"Exactly," said the other, and then gave a rueful laugh. "And didn't get
it--at least, not what I wanted. I've only just got the machine. In fact,
it was my first load of plates. Now, if you examine it, you will see a
little number at one end of the plate-carrier. Every time you change a
plate after taking a photo the number goes up one, so that you always
know how many plates are left. The numbers range from one to twelve, and
the night before Wilkinson, my butler, who is almost as keen as I am on
it, happened to mention to me that number twelve was showing, which meant
that there was only one more plate left. And I forgot all about it till I
arrived at Comber Ness."

"But one exposure was surely enough?" said Ronald.

"Quite--if I hadn't wanted to take two different views. It is, as you
know, one of the most celebrated beauty spots of England, and I had
promised an American friend of mine two photographs taken from totally
separate points. And I had only one plate. So there was nothing for it
but to use the camera as an ordinary one by covering one lens with a cap
and taking one view on half the plate, and then covering the other lens
and taking the second view on the other half. But, of course, it spoiled
things from a stereoscopic point altogether. However, I'm glad to say
they both came out well. I left them to be developed that day, and they
were sent up this afternoon with the other eleven."

He was examining some of the results as he was speaking, and at moment
his ward came into the hall.

"Good Heavens! Uncle John," she cried, "this is hardly the time
photographs."

"Sorry, dear," he said contritely. "The matter came up in the course of
conversation with Mr. Standish. You see, this was the camera I was using
that day at Comber Ness."

She seemed sorry at having spoken so sharply, and laid her hand on his
shoulder.

"It's all right, old 'un," she said "So that's the new toy, is it? Can we
see the pretty pictures?"

"I've got to make the positives first," he answered. "These are the
negatives."

"Well, it's all beyond me. And I thought they were going to be much
bigger. Each of them seems just the same size as that other camera
takes--the little one."

"Quite right. This camera takes two identical pictures on every plate,
each of which is the same size as the little one."

"And when were these very goo views of the grounds here taken?" said
Ronald.

"Let the see. I think I took those the day before I went to Comber Ness."

"A very fine machine," cried Ronald. "They are so clear cut. And these
two separate ones of Comber Ness. Beautiful! Beautiful! I should very
much like prints of those myself, if you would be good enough."

"Certainly," said our host. "Delighted. And now I expect you'd like to
see your rooms."

He led the way upstairs and, having told us the time of dinner, left us.
And shortly after Ronald came sauntering into my room and sat on the bed.

"What do you make of it, Bob?" he said.

"Nothing at all," I answered. "And though you may be perfectly clear in
your own mind, old lad, that this man Daynton didn't do it, I don't see
that you've got much forrader as to who did."

He made no reply, and was staring out of the window as the butler knocked
to find out if there was anything we wanted.

"I hear you're very keen on photography, Wilkinson," said Ronald
pleasantly.

"In a small way I dabble in it, sir."

"Mr. Playfair was telling me it was a great hobby of yours. What do you
think of that new camera of his?"

"I've only seen it once, sir. He asked me to tell him the number showing
at the end. Twelve it was, I remember. That was the night before the
tragedy, sir. I do hope that you may be able to do something for poor Mr.
Daynton. Such a nice gentleman, sir."

"I hope so, too, Wilkinson. By the way, Mr. Playfair does most of his
developing himself, doesn't he?"

"Invariably, sir," said the butler, looking faintly surprised.

"But he had this last lot developed for him?" persisted Ronald.

"Yes, sir. He apparently lunched at Barminster on the day of the murder,
and left them with a chemist there."

"Thank you, Wilkinson. No--nothing to drink."

The butler left the room, and I stared at him.

"You seem very interested in our host's photography," I said.

"Bob;" he remarked, "if you had just bought a new stereoscopic camera and
had motored over a hundred miles for a view, would you suddenly be so
overcome by a promise given to an American friend that you wouldn't use
your new acquisition as such?"

"What in the name of fortune are you driving at?" I cried. "Anyway,
whatever I might or might not do, we have seen what our host did. There's
the proof in the negative. Why, good Lord, man, you can't suspect him."

"I didn't say I did. I merely asked a question. You see, Bob, one thing
is perfectly clear. A man who was at Comber Ness in the morning and
arrived at Barminster for lunch could not possibly have left here as late
as ten o'clock."

"Very well, then?"

"A perfect alibi. But it would have been an equally good alibi if he had
carried out the same time-table and taken a stereoscopic picture there
instead of two separate views. So again I ask--why those two different
views?"

"It must be the American," I cried.

"Must it? Or is it because he couldn't take a stereoscopic picture?"

"Then he couldn't have taken the other two?"

"Sound logic," he grinned. "Well, time to change, I suppose."

"Look here, Ronald," I almost shouted, "what do you mean?"

The grin departed, and he looked at me gravely. "It means," he said,
"that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous and unprincipled man,
whose only slip up to date is that he did not expend a pennyworth of oil
on the hinges of the summer-house door."

And with that he left the room.

All through the evening his words kept recurring to me, and the more I
thought of them the more amazing did they become. It seemed to me he must
be wrong, and yet Ronald Standish was not in the habit of making a
definite statement without good reason. And when, next morning, he
suddenly announced his intention of returning to London, I was even more
dumbfounded.

The girl was terribly disappointed, and it struck me that his attempts at
consolation were very half-hearted. He seemed to have lost interest in
the case, though he gave her a few perfunctory words of hope.

"I'll be back this evening, Miss Moody," he said, "and perhaps by then I
may have something to report."

But I heard him expressing a different opinion to our host when she was
out of hearing. For some reason he did not want me to go with him, and so
I spent most of the day with her trying to cheer her up. It was a little
difficult, since I manifestly could not allude to the amazing hints he
had dropped the preceding evening. In fact, the more I thought of them
the more fantastic did they seem. If Ronald had a fault it was that he
sometimes seemed to go out of his way to find a complicated solution to a
thing when a simple one fitted the facts. And for the life of me I could
not see wherein lay the difficulty over our host's explanation of the two
different photos on the one plate.

He returned about six, looking weary and dispirited, and my heart sank.

"Waste of time, I fear," he said, as we all met him in the hall. "I'm
afraid it's a case of going back to London for good."

"And throwing up the case?" cried the girl.

"I fear I was to blame, Miss Moody, in speaking too hopefully in my
rooms," he said. "So if you could give orders for our things to be
packed, we'll be getting along. By the way, Mr. Playfair, don't forget
those two photographs you promised me."

"I did them for you to-day," said our host. "I'll see if they are dry."

He left the hall, and for a moment we were alone.

"Got him, Bob," he said, and his eyes were blazing with excitement, "by
an amazing piece of luck."

But he was his apathetic self when Playfair returned with the prints.

"Astoundingly good," he remarked, as he examined them. "How did you
manage to do it, Mr. Playfair?"

"Do what?" cried the other, staring at him.

"Avoid taking the steam-roller which has been standing idle in the centre
of this particular view for the last ten days."

For a moment there was dead silence, and I saw that every atom of colour
had left our host's face.

"I did not go to London to-day," went on Ronald. "I went to Comber Ness,
where I took this photograph. Not fixed yet--but look at it."

He flung it on the table; it was the same as the other. But in the centre
was a steam-roller with a tarpaulin over it.

"You devil!" screamed Playfair, and made a dash for the passage leading
to the back of the house.

"Hold him, Bob!" roared Ronald, and I collared him. He struggled like a
maniac, but I kept him till Ronald came running back with the plate in
his hand.

"He was going to destroy that," he cried. "Well, Mr. Playfair, have you
any explanation as to why that steam-roller is missing from your photo?"
And then with a sudden shout--"Stop him, Bob!"

But it was too late. I felt his body relax in my arms, almost immediately
after his hand came away from his mouth. Then he slithered to the
floor--dead.



Chapter 3.

"I'm blowed if I see how you did it, Mr. Standish."

It was three hours later, and Inspector Savage was gazing at Ronald in
undisguised admiration.

"By starting with a theory diametrically opposed to yours," said Ronald.
"You were convinced Hubert Daynton had done it; I was convinced he
hadn't. Then who had? My first idea was that the murderer was some man
Power had wronged--probably over some woman. He had been hiding near by,
and had taken advantage of the quarrel he heard to do the deed and throw
the suspicion on someone else. Then I suddenly realised the enormous
significance of the fact that the door creaked, and shut of its own
accord.

"Now, Power was sitting at his easel some four yards from the door.
Suppose the door was shut when the murderer entered; it would creak as he
opened it. Suppose it was being kept open by the stone with which the
deed was done; it would creak as it shut, after the stone was picked up.
In either event it would creak.

"Now, what does anybody do who hears a door creak behind him--especially
if there has just been a quarrel and the creak may mean that the other
person has returned? He looks over his shoulder to see who it is. And if
he sees some enemy of his, someone he has wronged, he does not continue
his job with his back to the newcomer. But Power went on with his
painting. There fore the person he saw he did not regard as an enemy, but
looked on as a friend. So much of a friend, in fact, that he did not
object to this new arrival walking about behind his back--always an
uncomfortable sensation unless your mind is completely at rest. And at
once a very different complexion was put on the matter.

"Then came my interview with Mr. John Playfair, and the question of the
two separate pictures of different views of Comber Ness on the one
plate--the point that puzzled you so much, Bob. You remember that when I
said it might be because he couldn't take a stereoscopic picture, you
countered by saying that in that case he equally could not have taken the
two separate views. Which was right, up to a point. He couldn't have
taken either, but that doesn't prevent a negative appearing on a plate.

"The man was a skilled photographer, and he was faced with the necessity
of proving to the world that he had been to Comber Ness. If he could do
so he was safe. But since he had ho intention of going anywhere near
Comber Ness, what was he to do? He knew that if you take a negative and
make a positive from it, you can produce a second negative in a dark room
on exactly the same principle as you produce a print. But he had no
stereoscopic picture of Comber Ness; he'd only just bought the machine.
What he had got were two separate views taken with his smaller camera!

"So he makes two positives--you remember Miss Moody told us he was
fiddling about in the dark room all the afternoon before the murder--and
then he takes out his last stereoscopic plate. You see the importance of
its being the last one; that accounted for his having to put them both on
one plate. And that was why he took three unnecessary photos of his own
grounds. On to that last plate he clips the two positives, side by side,
exposes it in his dark room, and returns the plate to the camera. There
is his alibi. He need never go near Comber Ness, and, in fact, he never
did.

"He had Wilkinson's evidence that twelve was the number showing--you
noticed there, Bob, the slight discrepancy between Playfair's statement
and the butler's. He had the chemist's evidence that the plates were
handed over to him to be developed; he had the hotel evidence that he
lunched at Barminster.

"Exactly what he did we shall never know. He drove away at eight-thirty,
and presumably concealed his car in some lane. Then he returned and hid
near the summer-house. He was taking no risk up to date; if he was found
there was no reason why he shouldn't be in his own grounds. And
everything came off. He murdered Power, and drove quietly over to
Barminster, where he lunched."

"But why. this cold-blooded murder of a man he apparently liked?" I
asked.

"The usual reason," he answered. "Once or twice after dinner last night I
caught the look in his eyes as they rested on the girl. He was in love
with her himself, which can account for many things. Why he took up Power
at all I can't tell you--possibly at the beginning he had some idea of
choking off Daynton by making him jealous. Then he may have feared that
instead of doing that the artist's attentions to the girl might have the
opposite result and bring Daynton and the girl closer together. Or
perhaps he may have become jealous of Power himself. Anyway, he saw his
opportunity of getting rid of both of them. And but for the astounding
piece of luck of my finding that steam-roller where it was, he'd have
gone darned near doing it. Being a clever man, he realised at once that
his whole alibi had become worse than useless--it had become a rope round
his neck. For what possible reason could there be, save the true one, for
his saying he'd been to Comber Ness when he hadn't? That was why I was so
off-hand to-day. At the first hint of suspicion he would have destroyed
the plate and never given me the prints, trusting to the chemist's
evidence that it had been a view of Comber Ness."

"Well, I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Standish," said the
Inspector. "Mr. Daynton has already been released."

"And doubtless will provide the necessary consolation for Miss Moody,"
said Ronald, with a smile. "For I don't think we need waste one second's
pity on that singularly cold-blooded murderer."

And it wasn't until we were driving into London that he turned to me
thoughtfully.

"I think the lie was justified, Bob, don't you?"

"What lie?" I said.

"That steam-roller only arrived at Comber Ness early this morning."




THE MISSING CHAUFFEUR



Chapter 1.

It was on a morning in late September that, happening to drop into Ronald
Standish's rooms, I found a man with him whose face seemed familiar to
me. He was sprawling in one of the easy chairs, smoking a cigarette, and
he glanced up as I apologised for interrupting.

"You're doing nothing of the sort, old boy," said Ronald. "In fact,
you've arrived at a very propitious moment. Do you know the Duke of
Dorset, known to most of the dear old schoolfellows as Catface? This"--he
waved a hand at me--"is Bob Miller."

The Duke grinned cheerfully.

"I was up in Town on business," he said, "and I suddenly remembered that
Ronald sometimes did the sleuth act. So I called round to see him."

"Not much sleuthing about this," laughed Ronald. "Bob--we are rising in
business. We've now become a registry office for servants."

"If somebody would explain," I murmured mildly, "it might be a little
easier."

"Catface has lost his chauffeur," Ronald remarked. "Hence his visit. But
tell Bob the story. I'd like to hear it again."

"It sounds a bit absurd, I must admit," said the Duke, "and there is
probably some quite ordinary explanation. At the same time it's no use
pretending that I'm not worried. My chauffeur has suddenly and
mysteriously disappeared. He's been in our service for years; he was with
my father. And he's vanished into thin air."

"It's this way, Bob," said Ronald. "The man's name is Williams, and he
lives with his wife in a cottage on the estate. By the way, are there any
children?"

"Two," said the Duke. "A boy and a girl--about ten and eight years old."

"Well, it appears that the night before last Williams left his cottage
just after seven o'clock, telling his wife that he was going down to the
'Bat and Ball' to have a pint--the 'Bat and Ball' being the chief pub in
Medchester, which, as you know, is the village close to Catface's hovel.
Apparently it was not an unusual thing for him to do, and Mrs. Williams
thought nothing about it. But, as time went on and nine o'clock came with
no sign of him, she began to get uneasy. So finally she rang up the 'Bat
and Ball,' to find to her amazement that he had never been there. She
still wasn't really alarmed. There was another pub to which he some times
went. But that wasn't on the telephone, so all she could do was to wait.
And wait she did until eleven o'clock, when she became genuinely
frightened. So she put on a hat and went down into the village, a matter
of ten minutes' walk. At that hour both the pubs were shut, but she beat
up the two owners, only to find that her husband had not been to either
of them that night.

"By this time, of course, she was in a thorough panic. She could only
assume that her husband had been taken ill or had had a fit on the way.
So she got the local constable out of bed, and armed with a lantern the
two of them searched the road the whole way back to her cottage, without,
however, finding any trace of him. And that is as far as we go at the
moment. Her husband did not return during the night. He had not returned
when Catface left for London yesterday after lunch. And such is the story
of the missing chauffeur."

"Possibly he's back by now," I said.

"I told his wife to wire me at the club if he returned," said the Duke.
"You see, the extraordinary thing to my mind is that Williams, of all
men, should act in such a way. It's as if one's butler suddenly stood on
his head in the dining-room."

"Probably suffering from loss of memory," I remarked.

"But in that case surely he'd have been found yesterday!" he cried.

"Not of necessity, by any means," said Ronald. "It doesn't follow that
he's remained in the neighbourhood. He had money. What was there to stop
him wandering about all night, and then taking a train for somewhere?"

"The only station within miles is Croyde Junction," said the Duke. "And
he's as well known there as I am. Naturally I rang them up to ask, and no
sign of him had been seen. I'm worried, old boy, not only because I'm
genuinely attached to the fellow, but also because it's an infernal
nuisance having to get a temporary chauffeur for the Grand Duke's visit."

He saw my look of bewilderment and explained.

"The Grand Duke Sergius is coming to stay with me next week. In the old
pre-Bolshevik days he was one of the loud noises in Russia, and he was a
great personal friend of my father's. And he has announced his intention
of putting in two or three days with inc during his stay in England."

"But do you think there is any connection between your chauffeur's
disappearance and the Grand Duke's visit?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Probably I've got the wind up needlessly," he said, "but the possibility
has occurred to me. He is a leader and mainspring of the Whites, and I
know that his life has been threatened on several occasions."

"Still, it is difficult to see how abducting your chauffeur is going to
help them to carry out their threat. They can't possibly know whom you
are going to engage in his place. They can't, so to speak, force a man on
you."

"I know all that," he agreed. "I've said it to myself over and over
again. And still I can't get rid of the thought that there may be some
connection."

"Have you taken any steps to get another man?" asked Ronald.

"I told my agent to write about it," he said. "Honestly, old boy, I wish
you'd come down for a few days." He leaned forward in his chair. "It's
possible--perhaps probable--that I'm talking through the back of my neck.
But I am uneasy. If it wasn't for the Grand Duke the thing would be quite
different; I shouldn't have worried you. But I'd never forgive myself if
anything happened while he was staying with me. Why doesn't Miller come,
too? I can give you both some shooting. And I'd feel easier if you'd cast
your eye over things."

Ronald smiled. "I've got no objection to trying to hit a few in the beak,
old boy," he said. "And I don't suppose Bob has either. But I frankly
think you are worrying yourself most unnecessarily about this man's
disappearance. I'm convinced myself you'll find that there is some quite
simple explanation."

And at that we left it, after agreeing to motor down that afternoon.

The Duke had arrived before us, and a glance at his face showed that
further developments had taken place.

"I've got Mrs. Williams here, Ronald," he said. "I want you to hear what
she has to say. I'm terribly afraid there has been foul play."

We followed him into a small writing-room, where a middle-aged woman, her
eyes red with weeping, was waiting.

"Now, Mrs. Williams," he went on, "I want you to tell these gentlemen
exactly what you've told me. They've come down from London especially to
see if they can do anything to help you."

"I will, your Grace," she answered; "though I fear my poor Henry is
beyond human aid. He'd never have gone away like that, without so much as
a word to me, of his own free will."

"Supposing you just tell us everything, Mrs. Williams," said Ronald
gently. "I have already heard from his Grace the bare facts of your
husband's disappearance. Now I want to hear further details."

"Show Mr. Standish what you found to-day," said the Duke. She fumbled in
her bag, and finally produced a sheet of paper, which she handed to
Ronald. On it was written the following sentence in block capitals:

MEET ME CROSS ROADS 7.30

"And where did you find this?" asked Ronald, holding it up to the light.

"In my husband's livery, sir," she answered. "There was a hole in the top
pocket, and as I was folding it up and putting it away this morning I
felt this rustle in the lining."

"Which cross-roads does it refer to?"

"There are cross-roads half-way between the cottage and Medchester," said
the Duke.

"I see," said Ronald. "So for the moment, at any rate, we'll assume that
that is the spot alluded to. Now, Mrs. Williams, you say you found this
in your husband's livery. Did he wear it on the day he disappeared?"

"Yes, sir. He came in about six o'clock and changed."

"Was he in his usual spirits, or did he seem at all worried?"

"Not exactly worried, sir, but rather quiet like."

"In other words, different from what he generally was?"

"Well, yes, sir--he was a little. And yet not enough to make me remark on
it at the time. Though what with one thing and another and getting the
children to bed, I didn't have much chance of speaking."

"And he's said nothing to you in the last few days which could throw any
light on this note?"

"Nothing, sir." And then she hesitated. "Well, there was one little
thing, sir."

"Out with it," said Ronald. "It's the little things we want."

"Well, sir, about four days ago, or perhaps five, he did say to me that
there was a lot of wicked scoundrels in the world. And he said it as if
there was something at the back of his mind."

"Did you ask him what he meant?" cried the Duke.

"I didn't, your Grace," she said. "He was just going out, and after that
it slipped my memory."

"So there's really nothing more you can tell us, Mrs. Williams?" said
Ronald.

"No, sir. I can't think of anything."

"And your children noticed nothing?"

"No, sir. I haven't told them yet. I've just let them think their daddy
has gone away for two or three days." She clasped her hands together.
"Oh, sir--do you think there's any hope?"

"Good Heavens! yes, Mrs. Williams," cried Ronald cheerfully. "You go back
to your cottage and keep your spirits up. I shall probably be along that
way shortly myself. By the way, there is one more question I want to ask
you. Has your husband got any friends or acquaintances who are not
English?"

"Not that I know of, sir," she answered. "If he has, he's never mentioned
it to me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Williams. Now, don't forget what I said: keep cheerful."

"What do you make of it, Ronald?" said the Duke, as the door closed
behind her.

"Nothing at all at the moment," Ronald answered, "except the one
significant fact in that note."

He put it on the table.

"Look at that seven. Have you ever seen an Englishman make a seven with a
horizontal line across it? Whereas a lot of Europeans do. I don't say
it's conclusive, but it's more than likely that the writer has lived a
lot abroad. Question number two. Is it a man or a woman? No answer
possible from what we've got at present. From what you tell me, Williams
is not the sort of man who would play the fool with a girl."

"Most emphatically not," said the Duke.

"But, on the other hand, he might be taken in by a sob-stuff story and
think he could help, someone. So, as I said, we do not know if it's a man
or a woman. All we can say is that the loss of memory theory is out of
court, and that he left the house to keep a definite assignation."

"Which looks bad to me," said the Duke. "For nothing will make me believe
that he would not have communicated with me if he'd been able to."

"It has that appearance, Catface," agreed Ronald. "However, we may as
well go and have a look at the place, though I don't suppose we'll find
anything after such a lapse of time."

"I'll come with you," said the Duke. "There is ample time before dinner."

We strolled across the park, and after we had gone about half a mile he
pointed to two cottages ahead of us.

"One of those is Williams's," he remarked; "the other belongs to the head
keeper."

"I think we'll start at the cross-roads first," said Ronald. "Has anybody
except the local constable been over the ground?"

"I couldn't tell you," answered the Duke. "I told my agent to do all he
could, and to get in touch with the police at Dorchester.
Incidentally--talk of the devil--Well, Johnson, any fresh developments?"

A middle-aged man in riding breeches was coming towards us, and his
expression was grave.

"I'm sorry to say there are, your Grace," he said. "About thirty yards up
the road leading to Cantrell's farm the undergrowth at one side is all
beaten down. There is blood on the grass, and every appearance of a
desperate struggle having taken place."

The Duke turned to Ronald.

"That settles it," he remarked. "That's the spot we're making for."

He introduced us to the agent, and we all four walked on together.

"I was just coming to report to you," continued Johnson. "He must have
been set on by someone in the darkness, and in the struggle gone swaying
up that side road. That's Inspector Morrison from Dorchester in front of
us now. It was he who discovered it."

The Inspector saluted as we came up and led us to the spot. "Pretty clear
what happened, your Grace," he said. "Though why anyone should want to
assault Mr. Williams is beyond me. Case of mistaken identity, I suppose."

"Not that, Inspector," remarked Ronald, handing him the note. "This has
just been found in his coat. He was deliberately decoyed here."

As he spoke he was peering at the ground carefully.

"Is this track much used?" he asked.

"Very little," answered Johnson, "and mainly by Cantrell."

"Has Cantrell got a car?"

"Yes--but it's been out of action for the last week. A big end went."

"Well, a car has been standing here comparatively recently. You can see
the impression on the grass if you look closely."

He straightened up and his face was grave.

"Things look much worse than I thought, Catface," he said in a low voice.
"It's hardly conceivable that the mark of that car at this particular
spot should have no connection with the struggle. So it boils down to the
fact that the whole affair was definitely planned. But why the deuce
anybody should want to kidnap your chauffeur is a bit of a poser."

He turned to the Inspector.

"You haven't by any chance heard of any foreigners being in the
neighbourhood?" he asked.

The Inspector shook his head, but Johnson swung round at once.

"Funny you should ask that, Mr. Standish. There's been a woman--quite
young--staying at the 'Bat and Ball' recently. And two or three days ago
she was joined by two men who arrived by car. They all left that night.
By Jove! it was the very day of this affair, now that I come to think of
it."

"But why do you imagine that they were foreigners?" asked Ronald.

"Cheadle--the landlord--told me they were," said Johnson. "Apparently
they all spoke English perfectly, but amongst themselves they used some
other language."

"Well, Inspector," said Ronald, "there's something for you to go on. That
note was almost certainly written by a foreigner, and now we hear that
three foreigners were staying at the 'Bat and Ball' on the day of
Williams's disappearance and left in a car that night. Moreover, a car
stood here recently."

"Not much proof anywhere, sir," said the Inspector doubtfully.

"None at all," agreed Ronald. "But if there is no connection, it is an
extraordinary chain of coincidence. If I were you, I'd try to get a
description of those people from Cheadle, and put some quiet inquiries on
foot. It's just within the bounds of possibility that someone might have
noticed the number of their car."

He turned to the Duke.

"And that, it seems to me, is all that we can do. Sorry not to be more
helpful, old boy, but the business of tracking car and people is beyond
me. It's a police job pure and simple."

"Supposing you're right, Ronald, do you think they've killed him?"

"I can't tell you. I don't know, There's a lot of blood about. The
struggle was pretty desperate. All that one can do is to hope that he's
only been laid out."

"Lord! but I wish I could get to the bottom of this," cried the Duke in a
worried voice. We were walking back over the park towards the house. "I'm
infernally sorry for Williams--poor devil!" he went on--"but what's the
object of the thing?"

"Well," said Ronald slowly, "it seems to me that there are two possible
alternatives which suggest themselves at once. The first one is that they
made some suggestion to him which he resented so much that they had this
fight. The second one is rather more sinister. They decoyed him there in
order to abduct him, so that someone else might be substituted in his
place--someone who might prove more amenable to this suggestion."

The Duke stopped and stared at him.

"What sort of suggestion?" he demanded.

"I did not think so at first," said Ronald, "but with these fresh
developments, old boy, I am bound to admit that I'm beginning to agree
with your original suspicion that it's got something to do with your
visitor of next week. Otherwise the whole thing is absolutely
incomprehensible."

"What the devil am I to do?" cried the other. "Shall I make some excuse
and put him off?"

"You can hardly do that on what we've got up to date. We may be entirely
wrong. All you can do is to vet the new man when he comes very
thoroughly, and--"

He broke off suddenly.

"Hallo! a new development. What does Mrs. Williams want?" She was running
across the grass towards us, waving her arms, and evidently in a state of
considerable excitement.

"Your Grace," she gasped as she came up, "this has just come." In her
hand she held a letter which she brandished in the air. "Steady, Mrs.
Williams," he said soothingly. "Let's have a look at it."

"It's from Henry, sir." She turned to Ronald. "But look at the writing."

And Ronald was looking at the writing with a face grown suddenly grave.
For its colour was reddish brown, and it looked as if the wrong end of a
penholder had been used, so thick were the letters. The envelope was
addressed to "Mrs. Williams, Lilac Cottage, Medchester," and was stained
with mud and dirt.

"Read what's inside, sir," she cried.

The contents consisted of a double sheet of paper on which two words were
written, also in reddish brown:--

Harvey petrol.

"Harvey!" cried the Duke, who was looking over Ronald shoulder. "Why,
that's the local garage."

"Is that so?" said Ronald thoughtfully. "You are sure this is your
husband's writing, Mrs. Williams?"

"Positive, sir. Besides, I know the paper. You see that little W in the
corner, and Henry always carried some in his pocket-book. And envelopes.
What does it mean, sir?"

"Postmark--Belton. Where's Belton?"

"Next village to Medchester on the London road," said the Duke

"Then, your Grace, he must be there," she cried. "But why has he used
that funny-coloured ink? And why is the envelope so dirty?"

"I'm afraid you mustn't build on the hope that your husband is at Belton,
Mrs. Williams," said Ronald gravely. "In fact, I'm sorry to have to tell,
you some bad news."

"He's not dead, sir?" she said piteously.

"No, no. I don't think for a moment he's dead. But I'm afraid he's been
badly hurt."

"Can I go to him, sir?" she cried.

"We don't know where he is, Mrs. Williams."

"But, look here, Ronald," said the Duke, who had been studying the
envelope, "the date of the postmark is to-day."

"Which shows that it was posted to-day, but not that it was written
to-day. This letter was thrown out of the car in which he was travelling,
and fell in the mud. Evidently to-day somebody found it and put it in the
post."

"How on earth can you tell that?" demanded the Duke incredulously.

But Ronald did not answer. Instead, he turned to the woman. "Will you
leave this with me, Mrs. Williams? I'll take great care of it. And the
instant we know anything about your husband we'll let you know."

"Very good, sir. I'm sure, sir, you will."

She curtsied, and went stumbling back to her cottage.

"Now, Ronald," cried the Duke, when she was out of hearing, "how do you
know this letter wasn't written to-day?"

"Because I recognised at once the ink that had been used. It's blood,
Catface. And from the colour it's considerably more than one day old."

"Good God!" gasped the Duke. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. Somehow or other Williams managed to write this, using his
own blood as an ink. He knew that if his wife got it she would bring it
to you. It must be a warning of sorts, but what it means is somewhat
obscure."

"We always do get our petrol from Harvey." said the Duke. "His is the
only garage within miles."

Ronald put the letter carefully in his pocket.

"It's one of the most extraordinary cases I've ever struck," he said.
"And at the moment I don't see one ray of light."

That state of affairs continued for the next week. The new chauffeur, a
man by the name of Groves, arrived with the most impeccable references,
two of them from people known personally to all of us. Harvey, whose
garage we visited casually, proved to be a typical West Countryman with a
jovial face and a cheery manner: a man who, if appearances ever count for
anything, was as honest and straight as could be found in Dorsetshire.
Cheadle, with whom we had a pint or two, gave us as closely as he could a
description of the three foreigners, but, as Ronald had anticipated, it
proved quite useless. It would have fitted a hundred people equally well.
And the mystery of Williams's whereabouts remained as profound as ever.

It was not until two days before the Grand Duke's arrival that any
further development took place. Ronald and I were strolling through the
village on our way back to lunch, when Johnson, the Duke's agent, came
out of the "Bat and Ball" and hurried towards us.

"That woman is back," he said. "Returned this morning."

"Is she, by Jove?" cried Ronald. "We'll come in and have a drink. I'd
like to have a look at her without her knowing it."

"Good morning, gentlemen," cried Cheadle, as we entered the bar. "That
lady--"

"Three pints, Mr. Cheadle, please," interrupted Ronald quickly, at the
same time giving him a warning frown. "And have something yourself."

The room was full of the usual crowd that gathers in a village inn at
midday, and after a cursory glance round Ronald dismissed them. At the
same time, he did not relax his caution.

"Not a word, please, Mr. Cheadle," he said, in a low voice.  "I want to
see that lady without raising her suspicions. Is she having lunch here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then my friends and I will lunch here, too. Give me a table where I can
get a good look at her."

And for half an hour, in the intervals of trying to masticate the
so-called cold beef, we were able to study the woman at our leisure. And
it must be admitted that the insult to our digestion was not worth it.
Just a distinctly pretty young foreigner having lunch by herself in an
English inn--that and nothing more. And yet the clue to so much lay under
that tight-fitting little hat.

"Bob, I'm flummoxed," said Ronald, as we left the inn. "Absolutely
flummoxed. Why has she come back? What is the connecting link? There must
be one. No woman like that is going to stay at the 'Bat and Ball' for
fun. But we've got no proof: nothing but two or there apparently
unconnected facts. What is the link? Are we being damned stupid, or is it
really something that we couldn't know yet?"

And that night I heard him pacing up and down, his room for hours, until
at length I fell asleep.



Chapter 2.

Even now, after the lapse of years, I sometimes wake up sweating at
the nearness of the thing. But for one tiny slip on their part, and
Ronald's extraordinary quickness in realising its significance, one of
the most atrocious crimes of modern times would have succeeded. Many
garbled accounts have appeared in the Press. Now for the first time I
will set down the real truth of that amazing plot.

It occurred on the second day of the Grand Duke's visit. A ceremonial
call on a former British Ambassador who lived some fifty miles away had
been arranged, and at eleven o'clock the car drew up at the door. Groves
was driving, and seated beside him was the man who passed as the Grand
Duke's secretary, but who was in reality a highly-placed Secret service
man. Behind sat the Grand Duke and his host. The car rolled away, some of
the house party watching it depart. Nothing could have been more normal.
And then two minutes after it had gone a chance remark of Johnson's threw
the spark into the powder magazine.

"Never seen the Duke so angry in my life," he said, "as he was with that
new chauffeur a few minutes ago."

"What was the trouble?" asked someone perfunctorily.

"He'd let the car run practically dry of petrol."

"What's that?"

Ronald's voice came like a pistol shot, and then things moved.

"Bob--get the bus. Move, man, move!"

I raced towards the garage, and was back inside a minute with the
Bentley, to find Ronald waiting. He boarded her whilst she was still
moving, leaving a crowd of surprised guests staring after us. He flung
himself down in the seat beside me, and with a little thrill I felt
something hard in his pocket pressed against my thigh. Whilst I had got
the car, he had got his revolver.

"The tank of Catface's car was full last night, Bob," he said quietly. "I
had a look at it on purpose. Stamp on the gas, boy."

And three minutes later we were in the village. In front of us was the
Rolls outside Harvey's garage, filling up from the petrol pump.

"Pull up just behind her," said Ronald.

His eyes were darting in every direction, but at the moment the scene
looked harmless enough. The village street was almost deserted save for a
powerful-looking racing car outside the "Bat and Ball," and Harvey and
his assistant, who were manipulating the pump. The secret service man had
descended and was standing by the window on the side of the Grand Duke.
The chauffeur, having watched the filling for a few moments, had returned
to the driving seat. At length the operation was over; the pipe was held
up to let the last drops out; the gauze filter of the car was put back in
the tank; the cap was screwed on. And a moment later they were away.

"Seems all in order, old boy," I said.

He did not answer; only stared after the back of the retreating car. And
suddenly his eyes narrowed, and without a word he raced down the street
after it. Stopped, picked something up in the road, and came back towards
me like a madman.

"Get her going!" he roared. "And chase the Rolls."

He fell in beside me, and I saw that he held in his hand a gauze filter.
Even then I didn't get it. Evidently the assistant had forgotten to put
it back in the tank, and any time would do to return it. And at that
moment the roar of the racing car behind us drowned our own machine.

"They're after us," said Ronald, through set teeth. "And they've got our
legs. Saw the curtains moving in the inn and I knew we were being
watched. The woman and two men."

"What shall I do?" I cried. "Let her all out?"

"Yes, until I tell you otherwise."

The road was twisty for the first mile, and we swung round corners with
the other car on our tail. In the glass on the screen I could see their
faces at times, and suddenly I saw one of them stand up and draw a
revolver from his pocket.

"Look out," I howled. "They're trying gun work."

"Are they, by gosh?" said Ronald, kneeling up on the seat and facing
backwards. "Two can play at that game. Swerve about a bit, Bob, till he's
fired."

Came a crack and the pilot lamp shattered.

"Now keep her steady."

For about a hundred yards the road was straight, and I could see them all
in the mirror. And then it happened. Ronald fired, and the car behind us
seemed to swerve like a mad thing across the road. I had a vision in the
glass of wheels upside down; heard a frightful crash; then silence save
for the roar of our own engine.

"I burst their front tyre for them," said Ronald quietly, sitting down
again. "And now then, Bob, every ounce of juice."

His face was cold and set, but I could feel the nervous tension of him.
And still half dazed I drove on--drove as I have never driven before or
since--drove till we saw a minute or two later the Rolls in front of us.

"Keep your horn going," he cried, standing up and waving his arms
violently.

At last we saw Catface look round, then turn and give an order to Groves.
The car slowed down and stopped.

"Pull up beside 'em, but stand by to move on," said Ronald.

We reached them, and Ronald yelled his orders.

"Fall into this car for your lives!" he shouted. "Hurry! For God's sake,
hurry!"

They tumbled in a heap into the back of the Bentley.

"Drive on, Bob. Stamp on it again."

And I suppose I'd gone fifty yards when it happened. There came a
deafening explosion, and the Rolls seemed literally to split in two. The
whole of the back part flew in pieces, and what was left became in half a
second a raging inferno of flames. For a while we watched it in
awe-struck silence, and then the Grand Duke lit a cigarette and turned to
his host.

"Cutting it a trifle fine, I think. Do all your cars do that, my dear
fellow?"

"How did you find out, Ronald?" said the other shakily.

But Ronald was staring at Groves, who had turned as white as a sheet.

"Who got at you?" he said sternly. "And how much were you paid for
emptying the tank?"

"Nothing, sir," he cried. "Before God, I swear it. It was a lady, your
Grace, who had never seen his Royal Highness, and she begged me to stop
the car in the village so that she could have a closer look at him. She
wanted to take a photograph, and she suggested emptying the tank."

"You damned scoundrel!" roared the Duke. "How came that infernal bomb or
whatever it was into the car?"

"That he is not responsible for, old boy," said Ronald quietly. "Harvey's
assistant is the man who did it. But whether he knew it was a bomb or not
I can't say. Turn the car round, Bob. There are one or two little things
to be cleared up."

And the first of them was soon done. The car that had pursued us had
turned clean over and crashed down a steep bank, killing all three
occupants.

"They started some shooting practice at us, as you can see," said Ronald,
pointing to the shattered lamp. "So I retaliated, and was lucky enough to
burst one of their front tyres."

"Assuredly, Mr. Standish," remarked the Grand Duke, "you seem to be a man
after my own heart. Though I am still not quite clear why, if you saw the
bomb being put in, you did not warn us at the time."

"Because, sir, I did not realise then that it was a bomb. I thought the
assistant was putting back the gauze filter, and it was not until it fell
off the back of the car as you drove off that I realised that what he had
put in was something else. Sheer luck. No skill of mine. Had you gone
another thirty yards before it slipped off, and rounded the corner out of
sight, the death roll would have been in our camp, I fear. But--it did
slip off, and I saw it. It was a certainty then as to what had happened,
confirmed by their immediate pursuit of us."

And that is the true story of one of the most sensational cases of the
past few years. Harvey's assistant proved to be almost a half-wit who had
been bribed by one of the men to put the time bomb in the tank, having
been told by him that it was a patent device for increasing mileage. And
Williams, who had been kept a close prisoner in a house on the outskirts
of London, returned to the Duke's service. It transpired that the woman
had made the same suggestion to him as she did to Groves, and on his
refusing indignantly, the two men had sprung on him out of the darkness.
She had previously pitched him some yarn about being persecuted, and he
had met her on one or two occasions. In fact, the only remaining thing
left to chronicle was the arrival, a few days later, at Ronald's rooms of
a beautiful little clock. And on the back of it was engraved: "Guaranteed
not to explode. Sergius."




THE HAUNTED RECTORY



Chapter 1.

The fact that Ronald Standish was amply provided with this
world's goods was a great advantage to him in more ways than one. In the
first place, it allowed him to pick and choose his cases, since the
question of a fee did not enter into matters. He worked for the sheer
interest of the thing, and the utmost I have ever known him ask were his
out-of-pocket expenses. Often, indeed, he dispensed with these if his
client was not well off. There was one example I remember in which they
were considerable, but since he was working for a woman whose husband had
been killed in the War, leaving her extremely poor, he refused to accept
a penny.

But he derived benefit from his pecuniary position in another and not
quite such an obvious manner. Acting competely on his own as he did,
taking cases only when he felt like it (I have known periods of six
months when he hasn't handled one at all), he was not habitually rubbing
shoulders with the criminal classes in the way his professional confreres
had to do. And, consequently, he was not known by sight to any large
number of the people he was up against. Which, in view of the fact that
no one looked less like a detective than he, was on certain occasions an
immense help.

At the same time, there was but little reciprocity about the matter. It
was the exact opposite to the old proverb Tom Fool. There were very few
of the big men that Standish did not know by sight, and his was the type
of memory that never forgot a face. He made a point of attending, as a
casual spectator, any trial that promised to be of the slightest
interest. But unless it justified its promise, he rarely stayed longer
than was necessary to memorise the features of the prisoner. And so
stored away in his brain was an immense gallery of portraits that he
could inspect at will--an asset of incalculable value on occasions. And
one such occasion was the strange case of the Haunted Rectory, a case
which also illustrated his astounding quickness at spotting little things
which other people missed. I was one of the other people!

It was early in April when he and I arrived at the small Cornish town of
St. Porodoc. We were on a golfing holiday, and having sampled Saunton and
Westward Ho! we wandered farther west till we reached a course which,
according to its own members, at any rate, was better than either of
them. And assuredly it was a beautiful piece of golfing country.
Moreover, not being so widely known as its more illustrious neighbours,
there was no crowd. In fact, Ronald found a certain amount of difficulty
in getting a level game. His handicap was scratch, whereas I regret to
state that mine has never descended into the realms of single figures.
And since the Easter crowd had not yet arrived the field was a little
limited. However, he played the best ball of the secretary and myself on
two or three occasions, and it was at the nineteenth hole after one such
match that the incidents I am about to relate started.

The secretary, Maxwell--a retired Naval officer--was a man after our own
hearts. And I remember that he was in the middle of a story when the door
of the club-house swung open, and he stopped abruptly.

"Hallo, Vicar!" he sang out cheerily. "How's the ghost?" The new-comer
was a charming-looking old man, with the fresh complexion that only years
of living in the country can preserve. His grey hair was still plentiful;
his eyes clear and bright, but at the secretary's question his expression
clouded over.

"Worse and worse," he said ruefully. "Maguire says he's going."

"By Jove! That's bad," cried the other, with a whistle of surprise. "By
the way, let me introduce our vicar--Mr. Greycourt. This is Mr. Standish
and Mr. Miller."

The clergyman bowed and sat down.

"Yes--I think I will have something," he remarked. "I'm so worried I
don't know what to do. The whole thing seems to me so absurd."

"It's certainly a pity if Maguire goes," said Maxwell. "And, by the same
token, Standish, it's unfortunate it's Lent, otherwise you could have had
a round or two with him. He'd have given you a good game."

"What's the trouble about Lent?" remarked Ronald.

"Marguire is my curate," explained the vicar, "and the dear fellow won't
play golf in Lent. He says he'll see me through Easter, Maxwell, and then
he won't stay any more."

"Which means he won't get a game on these links at all," said the
secretary. "Surely something can be done to make him alter his mind,
Vicar?"

"Excuse my butting in," said Ronald, with a smile, "but at the moment
it's all rather confusing."

"And very boring, too, it must be, to a stranger," said the vicar
apologetically.

"Not at all," cried Ronald. "Let's hear all about it, and possibly I
might be able to suggest something."

"I'm sure I should be eternally grateful if you could," said the other.
"Well, then, Maguire came to me some weeks ago--a delightful young fellow
in every way--tall, upstanding, a typical British sportsman, and exactly
the sort of man that we want to-day in the Church. So much did I feel
that, in fact, that after he had been with me for two or three days I had
a very serious conversation with him.

"'My boy,' I said, 'don't think for a moment that what I am going to say
to you is inspired by anything but a sense of duty. The only reason that
I applied for a curate is that with advancing years I find this
straggling parish too much for my old legs. But I never dreamed that a
man of your ability and charm of manner would arrive. You are wasted
here, Maguire. You should be in some big centre, where your talent will
not be hidden under a bushel.'

"He smiled and thanked me for the compliment. And then he explained his
reasons for coming. It appeared that he had had a serious illness, and he
thought a few months of Cornish air would pull him together.

"'Moreover, sir,' he went on with a smile, 'I must confess to another
thing. The fame of the St. Porodoc links has reached as far as London.
And once Lent is over, I hope to have many a round over the course.'"

"Is he a very star-turn golfer?" put in Ronald.

"Apparently he was in the running for his blue," said Maxwell, "so he
must be fairly hot stuff. But he arrived after the beginning of Lent, so
I've never seen him play. In fact, I've only seen him once, and then it
was in the distance."

"I think he goes on the principle of keeping as far as possible from
temptation," said the vicar with a smile. "I know nothing about the game
myself, and so I fear I can't tell you how good he is, but he is
certainly extraordinarily keen. However, that is only a side issue. To
return to the main point: you must know, Mr. Standish, that I am
unmarried, and the vicarage, though very comfortable, is too big for one
man. And so when Maguire arrived I suggested to him that he should take
up his quarters with me."

He paused to sip his drink, and it struck me that I had seldom met a more
perfectly delightful old man.

"He fell in with the idea at once," the vicar continued, "and I placed at
his disposal a sitting-room of his own. Our meals we take together, but I
considered it essential that he should have his own den to go to when he
wanted it. And for a week everything went swimmingly. Almost every
evening we talked together for an hour or two before retiring, and then
during the day he was out getting In touch with my parishioners.

"I think it was on the eighth day after he came that I noticed he was
looking a little worried at breakfast, and asked him if anything was
wrong.

"'Nothing, sir--nothing,' he answered, but I wasn't satisfied.

"'My dear boy,' I said, 'there's no good saying that. Something has upset
you. Come now: out with it.'

"For a moment or two he hesitated; then he looked across the table at me.

"'It seems a ridiculous thing to say, sir,' he said, 'but is this house
haunted?'

"I stared at him, speechless. It. was the last thing I expected him to
say.

"'God bless my soul!' I cried at length, 'not that I've ever heard of.
Why?'

"'Last night,' he said quietly, 'I awoke quite suddenly. The moon was
shining through a chink in the curtains, and in its light, standing at
the foot of the bed, I saw a man. At first I thought it was you, and I
asked you what you wanted. And then, as I became more fully awake, I
realised it wasn't you, but someone I had never seen. At once the thought
of burglars entered my mind, and I sprang out of bed. And as I did so,
the man vanished. I lit my candle to make sure. The room was empty. Then
I looked at my watch. It was just two o'clock.'

"He resumed his breakfast, and for a moment or two I felt nonplussed.
That the thing was merely a dream I felt convinced, but Maguire had
spoken so quietly, and with such a complete absence of any excitement,
that I hesitated to say so. And then took the words out of my mouth.

"'Probably a nightmare, sir,' he remarked 'and yet it was very real.
Perhaps that second whack of cream with Martha's pastie last night. I
mustn't fall again.'

"And so it passed off, and I thought no more about it until three days
later, when it was my turn to be awakened--this time by footsteps outside
my door. I slipped on a dressing-gown, and went into the passage. From
the hall below me came the flickering light of a candle, and peering over
the banisters I saw Maguire.

"'What is it?' I called out, and he looked up and saw me.

"'No nightmare now, sir,' he said a little shakily. 'I've had my visitor
again, and this time he didn't vanish. He went through the door, and I
followed him down here. And then he just disappeared into the wall.'

"'Come, come, Maguire,' I cried testily, 'this is absurd.'

"'So would I have said a week ago,' he answered gravely. 'Now I know it
is not. Mr. Greycourt--this house is haunted.'

"'Then why have I never seen anything?' I demanded.

"He had no answer to that. He couldn't tell me. But I was unable to shake
his conviction. I suggested he should change his bedroom, and he did
so--at first with good results. For three or four nights nothing
happened. Then the ghostly visitor appeared to him again. I sat up with
him, but whenever I did so we saw nothing. And last night it came to him
once more. I was awakened by a noise downstairs that sounded like a
window shutting. Then I heard his footsteps outside my door. His face was
white and his agitation was obvious.

"'It's getting on my nerves, sir!' he cried. 'I don't think I can go on
much longer. It vanished into the wall again.'

"'I thought I heard a window bang,' I said, but he shook his head, so it
was apparently something else that woke me. And, to cut a long story
short, this morning at breakfast he told me that be felt he couldn't
stay. He would remain to help me over the Easter celebrations, but after
that he must go. Naturally I was greatly upset, but what can I do? The
poor fellow is going to pieces. It is unfair to ask him to remain. But I
shall never be able to replace him with anyone I like so well. And even
if I did get a satisfactory successor, how do I know that the same thing
won't happen to him?"

Ronald had listened with the closest attention to the vicar's story, and
before making any comment he carefully filled his pipe.

"What servants have you, Mr. Greycourt?" he asked.

"Old Martha, who has been with me for years, is the cook. And I have a
younger girl who does the rest of the work."

"Have either of them ever seen this ghost?"

"No. And no mention has been made of it to them. You know what servants
are, and Maguire quite agreed with me that it would be folly to alarm
them. But do you really believe in such manifestations, Mr. Standish?"

"Evidently your curate does," said Ronald dryly. "And as far as I myself
am concerned I keep an open mind. Personally I have never seen one. At
the same time, so many people of integrity have, at various times,
vouched for their existence that it would be a bold man who denied their
possibility. At the same time--"

He relapsed into thoughtful silence, and I looked at him curiously. The
story was one of the last that I should have thought would have
interested his practical brain.

"Then I suppose," said the vicar, rising, "that there is nothing to be
done."

"As far as the departure of your curate is concerned, nothing that I can
see," answered Ronald, "But if it would be of any assistance to you, I
should be only too delighted to come up to your house and have a look
round."

"Will you both come to lunch to-morrow and discuss it with Maguire?" he
cried, and Ronald nodded.

"Thank you very much," he answered. "We'll be there."

"What do you really make of it?" said Maxwell as the door closed behind
the old clergyman.

"Nothing at the moment," said Ronald. "But there is one possible point of
interest. I don't profess to be well up in ghostly I lore, but from what
I have read on the subject I have always believed that a ghost haunted a
locality and not a person. Now in this case it is Maguire who is haunted.
No one else has seen it now or ever before. It arrived, so to speak, with
the curate. I wonder if it will depart with him?"

And once again he relapsed into silence, which remained unbroken till we
all three rose to go and dress for dinner.



Chapter 2.

The vicarage, which we found next day without difficulty, was
a rambling old house about half a mile from the top of the cliffs. A
well-kept garden lay in front, and as we opened the gate a tall young man
straightened up from a flower bed where he was working and came towards
us with a smile.

"The vicar told me you were coming," he said; "he'll be in shortly.
Excuse my not shaking hands, but gardening is not conducive to
cleanliness. By the way, I'm Maguire."

"So I guessed," said Ronald genially. "This is a nasty experience of
yours."

The curate's face clouded over. "Believe me, Mr. Standish," he remarked,
"I wouldn't have worried that dear old man for the world. But I can't go
on. I think my nerves are as strong as most people's, but this thing is
wearing them to a frazzle. I daren't go to sleep now. I just lie awake
wondering whether it's coming."

"Are you by any chance what the Scotch call fey?" said Ronald.

"I've never seen anything of the sort before," he cried. "But after this
experience, I think I must be. You see, I'm the only person who has seen
it. And the only conclusion I can come to is that I am what is
technically known, I believe, as en rapport with this particular
earthbound spirit. So that when I arrived here it was able to manifest
itself for the first time."

He made a sudden dart at a large snail, and picking it up threw it over
the wall.

"Doubtless they fulfil some purpose," he remarked, "but they are a pest
in a garden."

"How is your nocturnal visitor dressed?" asked Ronald, as we went into
the house.

"As far as I can tell you, in brown," answered the other. "But I've
really only seen his outline. He always eludes me, and then he vanishes
just about there."

We were standing in the hall, and he pointed to a spot on one of the
walls.

"Don't let's talk about it, if you don't mind. I try to forget it during
the day. Come up to my room, and we'll wash our hands."

We followed him up the stairs into a large, airy bedroom, where he left
us to get some hot water from the bathroom. And some what curiously I
glanced round. There was the bed at the foot of which the ghostly visitor
appeared; there near the window the bag of temptation--his golf clubs. A
cheerful, sunny room--the last one would have associated with the
supernatural. Then I happened to glance at Ronald's face. And to my
amazement I saw on it the look I knew only too well, which was replaced
by his usual imperturbable expression as Maguire entered with the can. He
had seen something, but what?

A few minutes later we descended to find the vicar waiting for us in the
hall.

"Welcome!" he cried. "I hope Maguire has done the honours, and that you
are ready for a real Cornish lunch?"

"I certainly am, Mr. Greycourt," said Ronald. "The links here give one an
appetite. I understand you play, Mr. Maguire?"

"I'm frightfully keen on it," answered the curate. "But I don't play in
Lent." He gave a deprecating smile. "However, I confess that I'm longing
to loosen my arms again."

He gave a couple of practice swings as if to illustrate his remark. Then
we all went into the dining-room and sat down.

"We must try to fix a round after Easter, if I'm still here," said
Ronald, and Maguire nodded.

"By all means," he answered. "Though I fear the same proviso applies to
me."

A slightly embarrassed silence settled on the table, which the vicar
broke by inquiring how we liked the place. And thereafter throughout the
meal the dangerous topic was safely avoided. No allusion was made to it,
in fact, until after lunch, when Maguire had left the room to go to the
telephone.

"I suppose you haven't succeeded in making him change his mind?" said our
host.

Ronald shook his head.

"No, Mr. Greycourt. And I think I can safely say that it is better that
he should not. The experience is evidently very real to him but I am
hopeful that when he leaves here he will go somewhere where the
manifestation will--er--cease. Somewhere, perhaps, where the food is not
so rich."

His voice was expressionless, and the vicar nodded thoughtfully. "You
think it's digestion?" he said.

"Perhaps so. In which case a change of diet may work the trick."

"I think it will do him a lot of good," remarked Ronald gravely. "Very
plain diet: wholesome, of course, and at fixed hours. But don't mention
it to him, Mr. Greycourt; he might think we were unfeeling."

"Of course not; of course not!" cried the worthy clergyman. "I shouldn't
dream of doing so."

"And while I think of it, Vicar, there is one other thing I would like to
suggest to you. If, during the few remaining days he is here, you should
again hear him moving about at night--take no notice. Remain in your own
room. It is a case, if I may say so, where the intervention of a third
party does more harm than good."

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. Standish. I will do as you say. He must work
out his own salvation....Ah! my dear boy--parish matters?"

He smiled at Maguire, who had just returned.

"It's my cousin, sir. He is passing through Wadebridge again. Apparently
the last consignment of cream was so much appreciated that he's going to
call for some more."

"Splendid! Splendid! I hope he'll stay for tea. Are you playing golf, Mr.
Standish?"

"Not this afternoon," answered Ronald. "Bob and I were thinking of having
a walk along the cliffs."

"Good. You'll find them beautiful--very beautiful. And if you are near
here, come in for tea also."

"What the dickens were you driving at?" I asked Ronald as we left the
house. "Your remarks on Maguire's diet seemed to me to be pretty
pointed."

"Getting quite bright, aren't you, Bob?" he said with a grin. And then
the grin faded, and with compressed brows he swung along over the springy
turf.

"I hope that dear old chap follows my advice," he said at length.

"That was another thing I couldn't understand," I remarked.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, you will within the next few days," he
answered. "The vicar has come to no harm as yet, but it's only because
he's been lucky."

"You mean he's in danger?" I said.

"Very grave danger," he said quietly.

His eyes were roving round the landscape as he spoke.

"But what from?" I demanded.

"That ghost. It would have been a bad thing for the vicar if he had
happened to come out one night in time to see it, or rather not to see
it. Let's walk over to the edge of the cliff there."

"You are an irritating devil," I said. "Can't you be more explicit? Give
me some clue to what you are driving at!"

Once again he grinned faintly.

"Do you remember the snail our friend threw over the wall? A most
instructive action, old boy, when coupled with that bag of golf clubs."

We had reached the top of the cliff, and stood peering down. A
clearly-marked path led to the beach, and he nodded his head as if
satisfied.

"It fits together, Bob," he remarked. "An old, old game, with one or two
distinctly novel features in it. And, but for the snail, I might never
have spotted it."

I refrained from profanity, and inquired mildly what he proposed to do
next.

"Admire the beauties of nature, old boy, until the time arrives for us to
get a look at Maguire's cousin. I feel he might help."

And not another word could I get out of him on the subject during our two
hours' walk, a walk which I noticed was so planned that it brought us
back to the vicarage about four o'clock. A car was standing outside the
gate, and as we approached two men came down the path carrying a wooden
packing-case. One was Maguire; the other, presumably, the cousin. And the
instant he saw them, Ronald went dead lame.

"Twisted my ankle, I don't think," he muttered, sitting down on the bank.
"Go on, Bob, and see if that second man has anything wrong with his
nose."

I strolled on, and got level with the car just as it was starting.
Maguire was talking earnestly to his companion, who was in the driver's
seat, and as I came up to them they both looked at me. And with a queer
little thrill I noticed that the cousin's nose had an odd kink in it, as
if it had been broken and not set straight.

Almost immediately the car drove off, and Maguire crossed the road with a
smile.

"Where is Mr. Standish?" he asked.

"He gave his ankle a bit of a turn," I said, "and I was just coming to
ask for a little cold water."

"Of course," he cried. "We must get him indoors. Here he comes now."

Ronald was hobbling along the road, and called out cheerily:

"Quite all right. Don't worry. Thought for a moment I'd twisted it
properly, but it's nothing at all."

"Sure you won't bathe it?" asked Maguire solicitously.

"Quite, thank you. I'll get straight on. It's no distance to the hotel."

"It's a pity my cousin has just gone. He could have given you a lift."

"Better to walk," said Ronald. "So you got the cream off, did you?"

"Yes, he's taken it with him. Well, Mr. Standish, we must try to fix that
game some time."

"Sure thing," cried Ronald. "If I'm still here all you've got to do is to
ring up the hotel."

With a cheerful wave of his hand, he limped on and the instant we were
out of earshot he turned to me eagerly.

"Well! Had he?"

"Yes," I answered. "It looked as if it had been broken."

"Good," he cried. "I thought I recognised him, even at that distance.
Bob, the plot thickens, or perhaps it would be more correct to say that
it clears up."

"Who was he?" I demanded.

"The last time he was given free board and lodging at His Majesty's
expense it was under the name of John Simpson. His real name, I think, is
Robert Stenway, and he's just about as nasty a customer as you could wish
to meet."

"Then what the dickens is he doing in this galley,"--I asked--"carting
Cornish cream about for a curate?"

Ronald began to shake with laughter

"Bob," he remarked, "I take off my hat to you. Maguire is no more a
curate than that Cornish cream is cream. And that being the case we will
send a wire to my friend Inspector Mclver, which, unless I am much
mistaken, will bring him down here post-haste."



Chapter 3.

"If 'Snarkie' Stenway is in it, it's dope for a certainty,"
said McIver.

We were in our sitting-room the following afternoon, and Ronald nodded.

"I thought so myself," he remarked. "But this fellow Maguire is a new one
on me, Mac."

"I can't spot him either from your description. Maybe I'll know him when
I get a closer look at him. Or perhaps he's a genuine beginner."

"Then he shows astounding aptitude for it. Incidentally there he is,
walking towards the post office."

The Inspector sprang to the window and peered out. Then he shook his
head.

"No, I don't know him. Still, perhaps this is the beginning of an
acquaintance that is destined to ripen."

"And no harm will be done by visiting the post office after he's gone,"
said Ronald. "People have been known to send wires from post offices, the
imprints of which are left on the next form."

He strolled out of the room, and the Inspector grinned at me. "No flies
on him, Mr. Miller. How did he stumble on this?"

"Ask me another," I said. "I've been with him the whole time; I've seen
everything he's seen; and all I can get out of him is that it was through
seeing this man Maguire throw a snail over the wall."

McIver roared with laughter, and a few minutes later Ronald returned with
a telegraph form in his hand.

"Virtue rewarded," he remarked. "It's to John Cuthbertson, Charing Cross
Post Office. 'Shall have more cream to-morrow.'"

He threw the form on the table.

"A bit quicker than I thought. It means he'll be getting the cream
to-night. Wherefore, Bob, if you want to see the ghost, a bit of shut-eye
won't do anyone any harm. It may be an all-night job."

"I'll just arrange for a couple of men from Wadebridge in case of
accidents," said McIver, "and then I'm of your way of thinking."

It was a pitch-dark night when we started at ten o'clock. The two local
men had already been sent on with instructions to lie up by the road a
few hundred yards short of the vicarage. And there we found them half an
hour later.

"No one has passed, sir," said the sergeant, "and the light downstairs
has just gone out."

"Good," said McIver. "Then we'll get closer and wait."

We approached cautiously, and finally went to ground in some bushes about
thirty yards from the house. Light was coming from two of the bedrooms,
and once Maguire came to his window and looked out. Then the lights were
extinguished and our vigil began.

The wind had dropped. The only sound was the distant beating of the surf
on the shore. And after a while I began to feel drowsy. It was a weary
business waiting, with no possibility of a cigarette. And then, just as
my head was nodding, I felt Ronald stiffen beside me. From the direction
of the cliffs had come the call of a sea-bird. It was thrice repeated,
and immediately the light in Maguire's room went on.

We waited tensely, our eyes straining into the darkness. And suddenly I
heard Ronald's whisper in my ear: "There he is."

A figure was just discernible creeping along the side of the house. Then
a light began to flicker in one of the downstairs windows. A candle was
being carried down the stairs. And then the set, white face of Maguire
himself came towards the window.

"Now," muttered McIver, and we all rose.

The window was opened, a bulky parcel was handed through, and at that
moment we were on them. The man outside was so surprised that he showed
no struggle at all. Not so Maguire. He fought with a cold ferocity that
was almost inhuman. And it was not until Ronald knocked him out with a
beauty on the point of the jaw that McIver got the handcuffs on him.

We stood breathing a bit heavily, when a plaintive voice from the stairs
reminded us of the vicar.

"What is it?" he cried, standing there in his dressing-gown. 'What has
happened?"

"We've laid your ghost for you, Mr. Greycourt," said Ronald reassuringly.
"I'm afraid we made a bit of a noise over it."

"But I don't understand," said the other, dazedly. "Why is Maguire
handcuffed?"

"Because he richly deserves to be," answered Ronald. "So you've come to,
have you?" He glanced at the prisoner, who was glaring at him with eyes
full of vindictive hatred. "Now, young man," he went on, sternly,
"there's one question that you'd better answer, and answer darned
quickly. Where is Maguire? For on your reply depends whether you're in
the running for a six-foot drop."

"He's not croaked; we've got him hidden," snarled the other. "But"--he
burst into a flood of hideous blasphemy--"I'll be even with you over this
one day, Mr. Meddlesome."

"If you don't stop that language I'll gag you," snapped McIver. "Take 'em
both into that room and keep 'em there," he ordered the sergeant.

"Now, sir," he continued, as the vicar joined us, "somewhat naturally,
you're a bit surprised. But if you will come and have a look at the
contents of this parcel you'll understand. You see these packets? Do you
know what is inside them?"

He opened one, and the old man stared at the contents uncomprehendingly.

"Snow," went on the Inspector. "Cocaine. Your so-called curate has been
using your house for smuggling dope."

"I can't believe it!" cried the vicar. "How did you find it out?"

"Better ask Mr. Standish," laughed McIver. "He's the wizard in this case.
And while he's telling you I'll just examine the room upstairs."

"It must have come as a shock to you, Mr. Greycourt," said Ronald
quietly. "But once you realise that this man whom you have known as
Maguire is not Maguire at all, and certainly not a clergyman, it will
help. You see, I've got rather a suspicious nature, and a severely
practical nature, and though I don't deny the possibility of ghosts, I'm
sceptical about them. And I became more sceptical still when I found out
that no one else had ever seen or heard of this apparition. So out of
idle curiosity I asked myself what object would be served if there wasn't
a ghost at all--if, in fact, the whole story was a lie. And one answer
stuck out a yard. It would enable the man who invented the yarn to move
about at night without incurring your suspicion. Which was suggestive,
but was only a mere surmise on my part--a bare possibility--when I came
to have lunch with you. Then there occurred one of those strange little
things on which the best-laid schemes go wrong. The man posing as Maguire
seemed a delightful fellow: his personality seemed all that one would
expect in a really sound sporting curate. And when in a moment of zeal he
flung a snail over the wall, as one gardener to another I took to him
more. Then we went up to his bedroom to wash. McIver," he sang out,
"bring those golf clubs down, will you?"

"Right you are," answered the Inspector. "And I've got a nice pot of
cream as well."

He came down the stairs carrying the bag of clubs and a china jar.

"What do you want the clubs for?" he demanded.

"I happened to look at those clubs while he was getting some hot water,"
went on Ronald. "Try one, Bob; take that mashie."

Completely mystified, I took the club out of the bag, and then in an
instant light dawned on me.

"Good Lord," I cried "it's a left-handed club!"

"Exactly. And he'd thrown the snail with his right hand; he poured out
the water with his right hand; he swung his arms in the hall
right-handed. In fact, here was a right-handed man, reputed to be a
first-class golfer, with left-handed clubs. Which, as Euclid said, was
absurd. So at once the case had to be examined from a fresh angle--the
angle that this so-called Maguire was an impostor. And everything began
to fit in. His refusal to play golf in Lent: obviously the easiest way of
avoiding the exposure of his complete ignorance of the game. His decision
to leave you after Easter, when Lent ends, and his excuse would no longer
hold water. And then another, more ugly, thought arose--he could not have
bought those clubs himself. No dealer would have sold a right-handed
beginner left-handed clubs. Therefore they must belong to the real
Maguire; and what had happened to him? And on that point, according to
what this man says, I'm glad to hear he has not been murdered. But I
didn't know that then, and so I warned you, Vicar, to let him ghost-walk
by himself. Quite clearly he was a dangerous customer, a fact further
proved by the way he fought to-night.

"The rest was easy. What possible purpose could bring a man of that sort
down here--save smuggling? This house lends itself admirably to getting
contraband from a boat lying off the coast. Moreover, you had been
awakened on one occasion by a noise that you thought was like a window
shutting. And when I heard that 'a cousin' was taking Cornish cream to
London from here instead of buying it for himself, the thing became
obvious. When, still further, I found that this so-called cousin was a
notorious dope smuggler and criminal, the case was complete, and I wired
for my old friend, Inspector McIver, with the result you've seen
to-night."

"Clever trick, this, Mr. Standish," said the Inspector. "Looks like a
genuine pot of cream, doesn't it?"

He held out the jar: all that could be seen was a layer of the delicious
stuff with its skin of faint golden yellow. And then with a spoon he
scraped it away, revealing an inch underneath packet after packet of
cocaine.

"In fact, a very ingenious plot, the memory of which may solace him
through a few years of seclusion," he went on with a grin. "With your
help, Vicar, we'll get Snarkie to-morrow, and that will conclude the
entertainment."

And with the vicar's help we did. The worthy old gentleman lied as to the
manner born with regard to where Maguire was when Stenway arrived, and
personally helped him carry the cream we had made up to the car. And
there McIver arrested him, while Ronald congratulated Mr. Greycourt on
his ready tongue.

"Not at all, Mr. Standish," he answered, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"I said that Maguire was visiting one of my parishioners, whether
willingly or not I saw no reason to state. And it may interest you to
know that the police station is within the confines of my parish."

So ended a clever crime which, save for Ronald's quick eye, would never
have been detected. Stenway got seven years: the other man, who turned
out to be the son of a wealthy man in the Midlands, and who had been a
wrong 'un from his birth, got five. It was the first offence that had
brought him into actual contact with the police, but I shall be surprised
if it is his last.

And as for the genuine Maguire, who, to do the scoundrels justice, had
been quite well treated, he and I beat Ronald and Maxwell in a four-ball
foursome only last week. After which we all dined with the vicar,
concluding with a pot of cream. Only the cream was not limited to the top
inch.




A MATTER OF TAR



One of the most useful assets in Ronald Standish's mental equipment was
his extraordinary knowledge of out-of-the-way little tips that are not
known to the man in the street. He seemed to have a positive storehouse
of them locked away in his brain; in fact, he was a sort of living
edition of one of those peculiar compendiums called "Do you know?" or
some such title. An astounding memory had a great deal to do with it. Any
new fact that struck him as being of interest was locked away and duly
docketed in his mind ready for immediate production when required. And
one of the best examples of this gift of his was shown in the case of the
Fallconer diamonds. And though, as an instance of his powers of
detection, it is perhaps not so illuminating as many others, it
illustrates his quickness on the uptake and powers of observation to a
very marked degree.

It was on an afternoon in early June that I wandered round to his rooms
to find him in the middle of a telephone conversation.

"I shall expect you round at once," he said as I entered, and then he
hung up the receiver.

"A lady visitor, Bob, is on her way," he remarked, "and from what I
gathered over the telephone she is in a state of considerable agitation.
Let us, therefore, endeavour to make the darned place a little more
presentable to the feminine optic before she comes."

He threw a couple of niblicks into, the corner, and removed his cricket
bag from a chair where it was in the process of being packed.

"A nuisance," he said. "I was going to have played to-morrow. But when
Jumbo Dean has wished her on to us, I can't let him down."

"Do you want me to stay?" I asked. "It may be private."

"Wait and see, anyway," he said. "Her name is Miss Fallconer, which
conveys rather less than nothing to me."

He reached for a copy of "Who's Who" and opened it. "Only one Fallconer
mentioned," he remarked, "and he has one daughter, so it may be him. A
widower living at Oxbridge Place in the county of Sussex. He's a J.P.,
and has written two or three books on travel, so that one is not
surprised that his club is the Travellers'. Age fifty-six. After which,"
he continued with a grin, "we shall probably find he's not our bird at
all."

I strolled over to the window. A girl was just getting out of a taxi in
the street below.

"Here she is," I said, "and there's a man with her. Both of 'em young."

A few moments later she came in, followed by her companion. They were a
striking-looking couple, and I instinctively glanced at her left hand to
see if they were engaged. They were not; there was no ring on her finger.

"How d'you do, Miss Fallconer?" said Ronald, going forward with hand
outstretched. "May I introduce my friend, Bob Miller?"

She gave me a little nod, and then turned back to Ronald. "Good Heavens!
Mr. Standish," she cried, "you're not a bit like what I imagined."

"Sorry about my face," laughed Ronald. "Tis a poor thing, but mine own."

"I don't mean that at all," she answered, laughing also, "but it's all
this."

She waved a hand round the room generally.

"Did you expect to find me immersed in a test tube?" said Ronald
cheerfully. "Or peering at you out of the cupboard with a false nose on?"

He looked inquiringly at the man, who so far had not spoken.

"This is my Cousin, Mr. Sanderson," she said, and Ronald pulled forward
two chairs.

"Let's get down to it," he remarked. "You're evidently very worried, so
there's no good wasting time."

She took a seat facing the window, and I studied her covertly. She was an
extremely pretty girl, but, as Ronald had said, she looked anxious and
troubled. One foot was tapping nervously on the floor, and once or twice
as she talked she bit her lip as if to control her voice.

"It was Major Dean who advised me to come to you," she said. "You know
him, don't you?"

"I know Jumbo very well," Ronald assured her. "And anything I can do for
a pal of his will be a pleasure."

"Mr. Standish, Jack couldn't have done it--I know," she cried.

"I don't want to interrupt you, Miss Fallconer," said Ronald quietly,
"but you must remember that I know absolutely nothing of the matter on
which you have come to consult me. So may I ask you to begin at the
beginning, and taking your own time, tell us everything that has
happened? Everything, please, omitting nothing, however trivial it may
seem to you."

He handed her his cigarette-case, but she shook her head.

"My father," she began, "is Mr. John Fallconer, and we live at Oxbridge
Place."

Ronald glanced at me.

"It is the one in 'Who's Who' then. Go on."

"My mother died a few years after I was born, and since then, except for
the time when I was at school, and one or two other gaps when he has been
abroad, he and I have lived there by ourselves. He was a very wealthy
man. Even to-day, though, of course, he's been hit like everybody else,
father is still pretty well off."

"Is the place entailed?" put in Ronald. "I mean, on his death does the
property go to you, or to the male next of kin?"

"To me," she said slowly, "unless he chose to make a will leaving it to
someone else, which I don't think is likely."

"All right. That's quite clear," said Ronald. "Now we can get down to the
real business."

"I say, Beryl, my dear," put in her cousin, "hadn't you better tell Mr.
Standish something about old Jack before we come to last night? He must
get it clear, you know, about everybody concerned."

"I suppose I had," she said. "Half a mile from us, Mr. Standish, there is
a small chicken farm which is being run by a man called Jack Dalton.
And"--she hesitated for a moment--"well--he's been the cause of the only
quarrels father and I have ever had."

"Leave this bit to me, old thing," said Sanderson quietly. "Jack Dalton
is a topper, Mr. Standish, but honesty compels me to admit that he's a.
damned bad chicken farmer. At least, the bally birds don't seem to pay,
and as he's got practically no money at all of his own he's pretty
impecunious. That, however, has not prevented what you have probably
guessed already: the two of 'em are in love. But her respected male
parent has old-fashioned ideas on the subject, and fails to see why his
daughter should ante up the boodle for Jack's eggs. That's about it,
isn't it, Beryl?"

She nodded.

"Yes, but there's another point," she said. "Jack feels just the same
himself. He says he won't marry me unless he can make his farm pay."

"I see," said Ronald. "We have now got that relationship taped. Let's get
on with it."

"The night before last--that is to say, Tuesday," she continued--"we had
a small dinner-party. Harold was there and Jack..."

"So Jack is invited to the house, is he?" put in Ronald.

"Oh! yes," she cried. "Father likes him very much. He often shoots with
us. It's only when I come in that the trouble arises. Where was I? Harold
and Jack were there; the Vicar and his wife, and Sir John and Lady
Grantfield who brought Harold in their car."

Ronald looked inquiringly at Sanderson.

"I live about seven miles away, Mr. Standish," he explained. "And my car
being temporarily out of action Sir John, very kindly, gave me a lift."

"Carry on, Miss Fallconer," said Ronald.

"After dinner," went on the girl, "father sprang a surprise on us. We
were all sitting in the room that used to be the billiard-room, but which
we have now converted into a sort of general living-room, when he
suddenly produced from his pocket a large case. And inside it was the
so-called Fallconer tiara. It used to belong to my mother, and it's
always been a bit of a joke in the family. It's of great value, but
perfectly hideous. The diamonds are magnificent stones, but the setting
has to be seen to be believed. And it appeared that he had removed it
from the local bank that very afternoon with the idea of bringing it up
to London to-day to get it altered for my twenty-first birthday. I, of
course, had seen it before, but the others hadn't, and it was passed
round for everyone to have a look at. And then he proceeded to lock it up
in a drawer in his big writing-desk, which stands in one corner of the
room.

"'But surely, Fallconer,' said Sir John, 'you're not going to leave it
there. Why, a child could open that drawer with a hair pin.'

"Father laughed.

"'Possibly,' he agreed, 'if there was any reason for him to try. But
since we eight and the bank manager are the only people who know it's
there, I'm not worrying.'

"And then we started to play bridge."

"No servant came in while it was being handed round?" asked Ronald.

"No; of that I'm certain," she said.

"Is this room on the ground floor?"

"Yes, but all the curtains were drawn."

"I see," said Ronald. "So it comes to this--that on Tuesday night your
father put away this tiara in a locked drawer in his desk, and so far as
either of you know no one but the eight people you have mentioned knew of
its presence there."

"Precisely," said Sanderson.

"Now we come to yesterday," continued the girl. "Father and I were alone
after dinner, and we both went to bed before eleven. He had intended to
catch the early train to London this morning, and I'd been playing tennis
and was tired. In addition to that--we'd--we'd had a row."

"What about?" asked Ronald.

For a moment or two she hesitated and glanced at her cousin. "Cough it
up, old thing," he said. "There's no good hiding anything."

"It was about Jack again," she said. "And it was rather a bad one.
Apparently he'd asked father to lend him some money in the afternoon. I
know that he wanted more capital to extend his farm with, and I suppose
he caught father at the wrong moment."

"I can't imagine why the silly ass didn't come to me," put in Sanderson.

"Well, Miss Fallconer," said Ronald, "let's hear what happened after you
and your father went to bed."

"Just as I was falling asleep," she answered, "I heard what sounded like
a heavy bump. I listened again, but it was not repeated. And then as I
lay in bed something unusual struck me. For a while I couldn't make out
what it was, and then at last I got it. A light was shining on the tree
opposite my window, which had not been there before. So I got up and
looked out. And to my amazement I found that the light came from the
billiard-room.

"I looked at my clock. It was just after midnight. I wondered who on
earth could be in there at such a time. And then I suddenly thought of
the diamonds. So I put on a dressing-gown and went down."

"Good for you," cried Ronald approvingly.

"I opened the door," she continued, "and for a few seconds I thought the
room was empty. And then happening to look towards the fire-place I saw
father lying on the floor. I rushed over to him, fearing for one ghastly
moment that he was dead. But I soon saw he wasn't, but was unconscious.

"I was too worried about him to think about the diamonds, as I thought
he'd had some sort of a fit. So I roused the house, and we telephoned for
the doctor, who came within twenty minutes, He made an examination, and
then he gave me the biggest shock of all.

"'This is no fit,' he said. 'Your father has been knocked out with a
weapon of some sort.'

"I stared at him stupidly. 'Knocked out!' I cried. 'Who by?'

"'That I can't tell you,' he answered, 'But he is in no danger, though he
will probably be unconscious for several hours. The only thing to do is
to get him to bed and make him as comfortable as possible.'

"And it was then that the diamonds came back to my mind. I rushed over to
the desk, and found the drawer had been forced and it was empty.
Evidently father had caught the burglar in the act of stealing the tiara,
when the man had tunned him and escaped. A window was open. The whole
thing seemed clear. So we got him upstairs and rang up the police
station. There was no good in the doctor remaining, as there was nothing
to be done till father came round. And so, finding myself alone except
for the servants, I got on the telephone to Jack, to ask him if he'd come
round and help me with the police."

Once again she hesitated, and glanced at her cousin. But he was
apparently engrossed in the toe of his shoe.

"He was out," she went on after a while; "at least, I could get no
answer. So I thought of Harold, forgetting his car was out of action. But
he managed to raise one in the village and arrived at about the same time
as the police."

"Which was at what hour?" asked Ronald.

"Ten minutes past one," said Sanderson, and Ronald made a note. "And at
what time did Miss Fallconer telephone to you?" he asked.

"As near as makes no odds, twelve-thirty," answered Sanderson. "But it
took me some little time to get dressed and rouse the owner of the
village car."

"Quite," said Ronald, then, Miss Fallconer?"

"The police asked all sorts of questions, and, of course, I could tell
them nothing," said the girl. "They rushed round the garden looking for
footmarks; they examined the window-sill for finger prints. And then at
four o'clock father recovered consciousness."

Ronald leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the girl's face.

"Oh! I know he didn't do it," she cried passionately. "It's all some
ghastly mistake."

"Steady, Miss Fallconer," said Ronald quietly. "Let's hear all about it."

"Father accused Jack of having done it," she answered, controlling
herself with an effort.

"His exact words, please."

"He said--'That damned young swine Dalton did it. He was masked but I
recognised his coat.' Then he became all muzzy again."

"Recognised his coat," repeated Ronald thoughtfully. "Is there any
particular significance in that remark?"

The girl had risen and gone to the window, and her cousin answered.

"Unfortunately there is, Mr. Standish," he said gravely. "When my uncle
became coherent again he gave us fuller details. Apparently he had heard
a noise in the billiard-room and had gone down to find out what it was.
And there he saw a man bending over the desk in an overcoat which was
unmistakable. We've all of us pulled Jack's leg about that garment of
his, but he said it was an old friend. It had a sort of purplish tint
about it which was like nothing else I've ever seen. In addition to that
it was filthy dirty."

"In fact," said Ronald, "as you have just said, an unmistakable garment."

"Quite," said Sanderson.

"How very peculiar!" remarked Ronald dryly. "I somehow think that if I
was going to break into a house I should not choose something to wear
which would inevitably give me away if I was discovered."

"Just what I say," cried the girl eagerly.

"What is Dalton's explanation of the matter?"

"He says that the coat must have been stolen from his house by whoever
did it."

"He absolutely denies that it was him?"

"Absolutely."

"Where was he when you rang him up, Miss Fallconer?"

"He says that he couldn't sleep and went out for a walk."

For a while Ronald was silent as he filled his pipe, and suddenly the
girl went to him appealingly.

"Mr. Standish," she cried. "I know he didn't do it. Jack would never have
hit father."

"My dear Miss Fallconer," he answered gravely, "whoever it was who stole
the diamonds never had any intention of hitting your father when he
started out. That was an entirely secondary thing done on the spur of the
moment when Mr. Fallconer discovered him. Have they arrested Dalton?"

"Not when we left," she said. "But father has told the police everything.
And I know they think he did it."

"Well, what do you want me to do, Miss Fallconer?" he asked.

"Come down with us, Mr. Standish, and see if you can't find out something
to help him. Major Dean, who is staying near us, told me this morning
that if anyone in England could save him you could."

"Jumbo exaggerates," said Ronald with a faint smile. "But I'll come and
see what I can do."

"Thank you a thousand times," she cried. "Will you come in my car or go
in your own?"

"In my own, thank you, Miss Fallconer. I'll be at Oxbridge Place as soon
as possible."

"I've got to get that stuff from the chemist for father, Harold," she
said at the door. "Will you be in St. James's Square in ten minutes?"

"All right, my dear," answered her cousin, picking up his hat as she went
out. And then he paused, listening to make sure she had gone.

"Mr. Standish," he said gravely, "I fear you're going on a fruitless
errand. I hadn't the heart to try and dissuade her from coming to you,
and perhaps--who knows?--you may spot some thing which we've missed. But
since you are, so to speak, acting for Jack, it's only fair that I should
tell you what I have not mentioned to anybody. I'd been over in the bus
yesterday, and dropped in on Jack just after his interview with my uncle.
And he was in a furious rage. As a matter of fact, he's got the devil of
a temper at times. And he announced not once, but two or three times, his
intention of making the darned old swab, as he put it, sit up."

"Threats of that sort may mean a lot or nothing at all," remarked Ronald.

"I agree. But I fear you've hit the nail on the head. I don't think for
one second he meant to strike my uncle, but I do think he intended to
steal the diamonds. You see, the devil of it is that there are only four
men except Mr. Fallconer himself who knew where the tiara was. And of
those four the Vicar and Sir John are obviously out of court, while I was
in my house seven miles away. It's a hopeless case, I'm afraid. However,
let's trust you won't think so."

With a nod he went out, and Ronald turned to me. "What do you make of it,
Bob?"

"Frankly, old boy, very much what Sanderson does. Pretty black."

"It was very hot last night," he said enigmatically.

"What the dickens--" I began, but he was already in his bedroom throwing
things into a bag.

"Pack a bag, Bob," he said. "I'll come and pick you up."

The whole way down he hardly spoke, and I wondered at his preoccupation.
To my mind the thing was obvious. Had someone been lurking outside the
window on the night of the dinner-party and seen the tiara being handed
round, surely he would have broken in on the Tuesday, and not waited till
Wednesday--I said as much to Ronald.

"Some such idea had occurred to me," he said, with a faint smile. "Which,
coupled with the fact that the night was hot, raises an interesting
point."

"What point?" I demanded.

The smile grew more pronounced.

"Think it out," he said. "And surely there is Sanderson standing by the
road?"

We pulled up as he waved to us.

"I got off at my house and waited for you," he said. "Will you come and
have a drink before you go?"

"I've heard worse ideas," remarked Ronald.

"And perhaps you'd give me a lift afterwards," continued Sanderson as he
led the way. "My bus is still out of commission. Confound it," he said,
peering into the sideboard. "There isn't a siphon. Mrs. Burton," he
shouted, going to the door, "siphon, please. A dear old woman," he
continued as he came back, "but as deaf as a post."

A moment later she entered beaming, and carrying in her hand a small
bottle done up in white paper.

"Here it is, sir," she said.

"What on earth is that?" he asked.

"The oil of eucalyptus you wanted this morning. The chemist did say that
you'd bought some yourself, but I thought I'd get a bottle and make
sure."

"Very kind of you, Mrs. Burton," said Sanderson, "but in the meantime
what I want is a siphon."

She bustled away, and he turned to us apologetically.

"Sorry," he remarked. "She seems to get deafer every day. Perhaps you'd
like a whisky and eucalyptus. As a matter of fact I thought I had a bit
of a cold coming on this morning, and there's nothing like it, in my
opinion."

The housekeeper returned with a siphon, and Sanderson poured out the
drinks.

"Here's fortune," he cried. "And may you be able to help poor old Jack.
We go past his cottage on the way to my uncle's house."

We finished our glasses and re-entered the car, with Sanderson sitting
behind.

"You'll have to go slow over one bit," he said. "They're just tarring,
and they're doing it damned badly, I think, with a particularly vicious
sort of yellow grit on top of it."

We came to the place quite shortly, and though Ronald almost crawled the
rattle of the tiny fragments on the back of the car was very audible.

"You're right," he said. "Damned badly. I'll have to--go even slower."

I glanced at him quickly. The pause in his last sentence had been very
perceptible. And it was obvious to me that that was not what he had
intended to say. But his expression was inscrutable and his next question
quite casual.

"How long have they been at it?" he asked.

"They only started yesterday morning," answered Sanderson. "Now in about
a mile we come to Jack's place. Are you going to stop there?"

"We might look in and see what he has to say," said Ronald, "though I
fear it's not much use. I've been thinking the thing over on the way
down, and it looks pretty hopeless to me."

And once again I glanced at him in surprise, though I said nothing.

"There's the cottage," said Sanderson. "And, by Jove! There's a constable
there. I know him, too; he's a local fast bowler. Good evening, Paxton,"
he called out as we walked up the path to the house. "Any further
developments?"

"Afraid there are, sir," answered the policeman. "They've arrested Mr.
Dalton."

"The dickens they have!" said Sanderson, with a significant look at
Ronald. "When did they do it?"

"Half an hour ago, sir. You see, we found the coat what the squire was
talking about--that there overcoat of Mr. Dalton's. And in the pocket was
the case what the diamonds had been in."

"And the diamonds?"

"Ain't found them, sir. Not a trace."

"Where was the coat found, officer?" asked Ronald.

"'Idden away, sir, be'ind one of the 'en 'ouses," answered the man. And
then he hesitated. "I suppose as 'ow I didn't really ought to, but would
you gentlemen like to have a look at it? It's in the 'all."

"I certainly would," said Ronald. "After all I've heard about this
garment I'm most curious to see it. Great Scott!" he cried as he saw it,
"no wonder you used to pull his leg over it."

He had taken it down, and was examining it carefully, and suddenly I saw
that unmistakable gleam in his eyes which I knew only too well. He was
hot on something, but no one except me would have noticed it.

"Interesting," he remarked. "Indeed, a coat of many colours. However, it
opens up a field for research."

"What?" cried Sanderson incredulously. "That coat does? How?"

"It has recently been worn by a discharged soldier who has a pronounced
limp and fair hair," said Ronald quietly. "I am beginning to see
daylight. Bob," he continued, turning to me, "will you and Sanderson go
on to Mr. Fallconer's house and wait for me? There are one or two
inquiries I've got to make, but I hope to get there myself in time for
dinner."

He got into the car and drove off, leaving us staring after him.

"Is he pulling our legs?" demanded Sanderson. "