“There has always seemed to me to be something strange about that boathouse since the old man died,” remarked McNeill in a half whisper as we left Carter. “He always keeps it locked and never lets anyone go in there, although they say he has it fitted beautifully with hundreds of volumes of law books, too.”
Kennedy had been climbing the hill back of the house and now paused to look about. Below was the Carter garage.
“By the way,” exclaimed McNeill, as if he had at last hit on a great discovery, “Carter has a new chauffeur, a fellow named Wickham. I just saw him driving down to the village. He’s a chap that it might pay us to watch—a newcomer, smart as a steel trap, they say, but not much of a talker.”
“Suppose you take that job—watch him,” encouraged Kennedy. “We can’t know too much about strangers here, McNeill.”
“That’s right,” agreed the detective. “I’ll follow him back to the village and get a line on him.”
“Don’t be easily discouraged,” added Kennedy, as McNeill started down the hill to the garage. “If he is a fox he’ll try to throw you off the trail. Hang on.”
“What was that for?” I asked as the detective disappeared. “Did you want to get rid of him?”
“Partly,” replied Craig, descending slowly, after a long survey of the surrounding country.
We had reached the garage, deserted now except for our own car.
“I’d like to investigate that tower,” remarked Kennedy with a keen look at me, “if it could be done without seeming to violate Mr. Carter’s hospitality.”