"I'm sorry for you, my lad," Hemingway told his Sergeant. "It looks as though you'll have to go and call on this Galloway, and find out if he's got the key of the stables on him. I'll have a look at the place first, though."
Together they left the house, and made their way through the melting snow to the stableyard. A modern garage had been built on one side of this, with a flat above it for the chauffeur; at right angles to it a rather dilapidated building presented forbiddingly shut doors, and small windows, thickly coated on the inside with dust and cobwebs. One permitted a peep into an old harnessroom; another enabled the Inspector to obtain a restricted view into the stable, and there, sure enough, laid flat along one wall, was a substantial ladder, quite tall enough to reach to the upper storey of the Manor.
Having felt under the door-sill, looked for a cache under the penthouse roof, and even searched two potting-sheds and a row of glass-houses, the Inspector, baulked in his quest for the key, looked carefully at the stable-window. It was a small sash-window, and although it would not have required any great degree of skill to have slipped a knife-blade between the two halves, and to have forced back the bolt, even the most confirmed optimist must have rejected this solution. It was plain that the window had not been opened for many a long day. Had any further proof than the undisturbed dust been needed, it would have been found in the presence, on the interior, of a cobweb of great size and antiquity.
"And now," said Hemingway, "you'll find that the gardener's had the key on him ever since midday yesterday. A fine sort of case this is!"
The Sergeant said, hiding a grin: "I thought you liked them difficult, sir."
"So I do," retorted Hemingway. "But I like something you can catch hold of! Here, every time I think I've got a line on something, it slips out of my grasp like something in a bad dream. If there's a sliding panel in that room, I'll eat my hat; I'd go to the stake no one tampered with that door-key; and now it begins to look as though the window wasn't touched either. It's witchcraft, that's what it is, or else I'm getting past my job."
"It is a fair stinker," agreed the Sergeant. "No use thinking about the chimney, I suppose?" The Inspector cast him a look of dislike.
"Or the roof," suggested the Sergeant. "There are attics above the bedrooms, and there are dormer-windows. Could a chap have got through the one over Mr. Herriard's room, and reached the window below?"
"No, he couldn't," said Hemingway crossly. "I've already looked into that, which just shows you the sort of' state I'm getting into, for a more fatheaded idea I've never met. You'll have to go off and interview this gardener, but you can drop me at the station first."
"All right, sir. But I can't help feeling that I shall find he's had the key all the time."