Soon after breakfast the next morning the hat came and was inspected. Knebworth, who had heard most of the story from Michael, examined the new clue curiously.
“If the coon wore Lawley’s hat when he arrived at Mr. Longvale’s, where, in the name of fate, did the change take place? It must have been somewhere between the Towers and the old man’s house, unless——”
“Unless what?” asked Michael. He had a great respect for Knebworth’s shrewd judgment.
“Unless the change took place at Sir Gregory’s house. You see that, although it is bloodstained, there are no cuts in it. Which is rum.”
“Very rum,” agreed Mike ruefully. “And yet, if my first theory was correct, the explanation is simple.”
He did not tell his host what his theory was.
Accompanying Knebworth to the studio, he watched the char-à-banc drive off, wishing that he had some excuse and the leisure to accompany them on their expedition. It was a carefree, cheery throng, and its very association was a tonic to his spirits.
He put through his usual call to London. There was no news. There was really no reason why he should not go, he decided recklessly; and as soon as his decision was taken his car was pounding on the trail of the joy wagon.
He saw the tower a quarter of an hour before he came up to it: a squat, ancient building, for all the world like an inordinately high sheepfold. When he came up to them the char-à-banc had been drawn on to the grass, and the company was putting the finishing touches to its make-up. Adele he did not see at once—she was changing in a little canvas tent, whilst Jack Knebworth and the camera man wrangled over light and position.
Michael had too much intelligence to butt in at this moment, and strolled up to the tower, examining the curious courses which generation after generation had added to the original foundations. He knew very little of masonry, but he was able to detect the Roman portion of the wall, and thought he saw the place where Saxon builders had filled in a gap.