He looked back through the peep-hole at the back of the cab. The other taxi was following at a distance.
“I brought out every available man,” he said. “I wonder if they found room for Stott? Anyway he can walk,” he added cruelly.
Mayfield was in darkness when the cab drove up to the gate. Carver sprang out, ran across the concrete yard and up the steps to the door with Tab at his heels. He flashed a pocket lamp upon the keyhole, flung the door wide open, as the second cab drew up at the gate to discharge half-a-dozen police officers in various stages of attire.
The hall was in darkness, but they had the lights on in a second and Carver ran into the sitting-room. The door leading to the vault was open.
“Oh!” said Carver thoughtfully.
He came back to give instructions to his posse and then, followed by Tab, he went down the stone steps, and along the corridor. The door of the vault was closed and locked and the room was unlighted. Carver felt in his pocket, took out the duplicate key, that upon which Walters had worked so industriously and snapped back the lock. At touch from his thumb and the vault was flooded with light.
He paused in the open doorway and looked. Wellington Brown was lying face downward in the centre of the room, blood was flowing from under him, and on the table, in the exact centre, was the key of the vault!
Carver picked it up. There was no doubt about it; the old blood-stain was still upon it and he looked blankly at his companion.
“Well, what do you think of that, Tab,” he asked in a hushed voice.
Tab did not reply. He was standing just inside the doorway looking down at his feet, and between his feet was something, the sight of which deprived him of speech. He stooped slowly and picked it up, laying it upon the palm of his hand.