The lower panel was certainly loose, and could be shaken about a quarter of an inch each way, but that seemed to be all; and looking relieved he drew back.
“Nonsense!” he said. “Absurd!”
Guest looked at him sharply, for the voice seemed to be that of a stranger.
“Not very absurd, sir,” replied the sergeant. “This door was made two or three hundred years ago, I should say, and the old oak is shrunken and worm-eaten. I could easily shove that panel out, but there’s no need. Here, Jem, try and open the lock the regular way.”
Stratton’s lips parted, but he said no word; and, as the second man strode up to the door with his tools, the sergeant went on:
“I thought it was a mare’s nest, sir, and even now I don’t like to speak too fast; but it looks to me as if the poor gentleman had been robbed and murdered, and whoever did it has hidden the body in here.”
A curious cry escaped from Stratton’s lips, and he gazed fiercely at the officer.
“That’s it, sir,” said the man. “It’s a startler for you, I know, living so close, but I’m afraid it’s true. Well, Jem, what do you make of it?”
Guest looked as if he had received a mental blow, as idea after idea flashed through his mind. Stratton’s manner suggested it—his acts of late, the disappearance of Brettison on the wedding day, the large sum of money on the table, the mad horror and despair of the man ever since—it must be so; and he felt that here was the real key to all his friend’s strange behaviour.
He wiped the cold moisture from his brow, and stared at Stratton, but his friend was standing rigid and determined, watching the actions of the two men, and Guest had hard work to suppress a groan, as he felt that his companion would owe to him the discovery and the punishment that would follow.