“Maybe, sir,” said the sergeant firmly, “but I’m not satisfied yet. Let’s go back in the other room, please. I want to know what that table-cover means. Hallo! What’s this?” he said sharply, as he stooped down and picked up a piece of composition candle, gnawed nearly all away. “Where’s the candlestick?”
“Here,” said Guest, pointing to where a little old-fashioned candlestick lay by a stand containing folios of dried plants.
“Well, sir, that was knocked down,” said the sergeant.
“We are wasting time,” said Stratton firmly. “See if that lock is uninjured, my man, so that the door will close.”
“Stop a bit, sir, please,” said the sergeant; “we haven’t done yet.”
He stepped at once to the panelled door on the left of the fireplace, turned the handle, threw it open, and made his light play in the long, deep, narrow closet, one side of which was filled from floor to ceiling by a rack laden with books of pressed plants.
“Looks as if it had once been a passage,” said the sergeant, “oak panels right over the ceiling. Well, nobody there,” he continued, as he backed out and closed the door.
“That will do,” said Stratton, speaking more firmly now.
“My friend and I made a mistake. We are much obliged for all you have done, and—”
“Not quite done, sir,” said the sergeant grimly; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace, took hold of the handle of the closed-up door, left to make both sides match, and tried to turn it, but it was fast.