“Stay here: he may return. Arrest him immediately and put the irons on him. He’s probably armed, and he may be suicidal; we can’t afford to take any risks.”
He had been so often across what he had named the “Back Field” that he could find his way blindfolded, and he ran at top speed till he came to the stile and to the road. Sir Gregory was nowhere in sight. Fifty yards along the road, the lights gleamed cheerily from an upper window in Mr. Longvale’s house, and Michael bent his footsteps in that direction.
Still no sight of the man, and he turned through the gate and knocked at the door, which was almost immediately opened by the old gentleman himself. He wore a silken gown, tied with a sash about the middle, a picture of comfort, Michael thought.
“Who’s that?” asked Mr. Sampson Longvale, peering out into the darkness. “Why, bless my life, it’s Mr. Brixan, the officer of the law! Come in, come in, sir.”
He opened the door wide and Michael passed into the sitting-room, with its inevitable two candles, augmented now by a small silver reading-lamp that burnt some sort of petrol vapour.
“No trouble at the Towers, I trust?” said Mr. Longvale anxiously.
“There was a little trouble,” said Michael carefully. “Have you by any chance seen Sir Gregory Penne?”
The old man shook his head.
“I found the night rather too chilly for my usual garden ramble,” he said, “so I’ve seen none of the exciting events which seem inevitably to accompany the hours of darkness in these times. Has anything happened to him?”
“I hope not,” said Michael quietly. “I hope, for everybody’s sake, that—nothing has happened to him.”