“Certainly not. No one has ever asked me for it.”
“You didn’t use it yourself?”
“Last night? No. I haven’t used it for weeks.”
Major Holmes nodded.
“Well,” he said, “that’s that! I now appeal to you all. Can you help me? A reliable witness states that some one left the Hall through that library door last night, was seen to walk across the park and, to all reasonable supposition, was the person who assaulted and chloroformed Mr. Johnson, and committed the burglary. You will realise that this is a serious statement. Can any of you suggest anything which might throw light upon the affair?”
“All that I can suggest,” Gregory remarked, “is that your informant must have been seeing spooks. Who is he? One of the villagers?”
“There need no longer be any secret about his identity,” Major Holmes decided. “Our informant is a private detective employed by Mr. Johnson.”
There was an intense and ominous silence. Henry Ballaston drew his chair a little farther back into the shade, as though he suddenly felt the sun too strong. Sir Bertram whistled softly, but for once in his life seemed guilty of an almost unnatural action. Gregory stood as though turned to stone. Across his face for a moment there flitted an expression of dismay. The Chief Constable saw it and his heart sank. It was Sir Bertram’s brain which moved the quickest.
“How the mischief did this Mr. Johnson get hold of a private detective at a moment’s notice?” he enquired.
“He has had him in the neighbourhood for some time,” Major Holmes replied. “His presence in the park last night was not accidental. He was employed by Mr. Johnson in connection with certain theories which he—Johnson—held as to the murder of Mr. Endacott.”