“And of my suspicions?”
“Yes.”
The inspector coughed. He had a heavy but ingenuous countenance. Disbelief was stamped upon it.
“Will you gentlemen follow me?” Mr. Johnson invited.
He led them on to the lawn, well away from the house. At a safe distance he came to a standstill and pointed to the library.
“Endacott,” he said, “was murdered for the possession of that other wooden Image and for the manuscript which indicated the whereabouts of the jewels. The object of the murder was achieved in part. A wooden Image was taken. You will find it now at Ballaston Hall. For some reason or another, the murderer failed to secure the document. He probably heard some movement in the house. The burglary last night was undertaken to secure it. Nothing else was touched, but the manuscripts are missing. The only person to whom the manuscripts are useful is the possessor of the Images.”
Inspector Cloutson stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked across towards the great front of the Hall. His was not the type of brain to quickly absorb suspicion, and much of this talk concerning wooden Images and Chinese manuscripts he looked upon as fantastic—almost as fantastic as the idea that a member of one of the great county families whom he revered could so far forget their lofty station as to commit a misdemeanour under the shadow of the law. Crime, in Inspector Cloutson’s opinion, was for the criminals. The idea of a Ballaston as a criminal was grotesque.
“You refer to the Ballastons,” Major Holmes observed, after a pause.
Mr. Johnson inclined his head.
“I refer to the Ballastons,” he assented. “Wait, please, a moment.”