“ ‘Ah, ha! my young friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t you try and get my stable secrets out of me.’
“And I felt he was lying. Without thinking something made me draw a bow at a venture, and the arrow went home with a vengeance.
“ ‘Wonderful delphiniums you’ve got,’ I remarked, leaning out of the window and pointing to a bed underneath.
“ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of those.’
“And the flowers at which I was pointing were irises. So this enthusiastic gardener did not know the difference between a delphinium and an iris. Back in an overwhelming wave came all my suspicions; I knew there was a mystery somewhere. This man wasn’t a gardener; and, if not, why this pretence? I remember now that every time he had drawn my attention to a specimen he had taken the attached label in his hand. Quite unobtrusive it had been, unnoticeable at the time, now it suddenly became significant. Why was he playing this part—pretending for my benefit? Futilely spraying the roots of roses, making me miss my train. I was convinced now that that had been part of the plan—but why? Why the telegraphing? Why the invitation to stop the night?
“The old brain was working pretty quickly by this time. No one, whatever his business, would object to a bona fide journalist writing an account of a fête, and if the business were crooked, the people engaged on it would be the first to speed that journalist on his way. People of that type dislike journalists only one degree less than the police. Then why—why? The answer simply stuck out—they suspected me of not being a journalist, or, even if they did not go as far as that, they were taking no chances on the matter.
“In fact, I was by this time definitely convinced in my own mind that I had quite unwittingly stumbled into a bunch of criminals, and it struck me that the sooner I stumbled out again the better for my health. So I put my article in my pocket and went to the door. I would wire it off, and I would not return.
“The first hitch occurred at the door, which had thoughtfully been locked. Not being a hero of fiction, I confess it gave me a nasty shock—that unyielding door. And as I stood there taking a pull at myself I heard the grey-haired man’s voice outside the window:
“ ‘Finished yet, Mr. Graham?’
“I walked across the room, and in as steady a voice as I could muster I mentioned the fact that the door was locked.