He made a point of walking entirely round the house twice in every hour, and it was on one of these excursions that he heard a sound which brought him to a standstill. It was a sound like two pieces of flat board being smacked together sharply.
“Tap . . . tap!”
He stopped and listened, but heard nothing further. Then he retraced his footsteps to the front of the house and waited, but there was no sound or sign. Another half-hour passed, and then a patrolling policeman came along on the other side of the roadway. At the sight of the young man he crossed the road, and Jim recognised an acquaintance of his drug-store days. Nothing was to be gained by being evasive or mysterious, and Timothy told the policeman frankly his object.
“I heard about the shooting last night,” said the man, “and the inspector offered to put one of our men on duty here, but Sir John wouldn’t hear of it.”
He took a professional look at the house, and pointed to its dark upper windows.
“That house is asleep—you needn’t worry about that,” he said; “besides, it’ll be daylight in two hours, and a burglar wants that time to get home.”
Timothy paused irresolutely. It seemed absurd to wait any longer, and besides, to be consistent he must be prepared to adopt this watchman rôle every night.
There was no particular reason why Sir John Maxell’s enemy should choose this night or any other. He had half expected to see Cartwright and was agreeably disappointed that he did not loom into view.
“I think you’re right,” he said to the policeman. “I’ll walk along down the road with you.”
They must have walked a quarter of a mile, and were standing chatting at the corner of the street, when a sound, borne clearly on the night air, made both men look back in the direction whence they had come. They saw two glaring spots of light somewhere in the vicinity of the Judge’s house.