“Oh I beg your pardon,” said the bass, “I’m sure.” He had the sense not to doubt the master of the house in a matter directly concerning his own interest. But the tenor added:
“We must make a note of it, sir.”
“By all means,” said William Bailey, “by all means. Her name is Rebecca.”
George Mulross Demaine, in the delight of the very warm water, was soothed to hear them tramping heavily down the stairs once more.
They examined every room and cranny of the place until they came to the study door.
“It’s my study,” said William Bailey apologetically, “I always keep it locked.”
He unlocked it and they entered. Their trained eyes could see nothing unusual in the aspect of the room until the tenor inadvertently putting his hand upon the back of the arm-chair discovered it to be both wet and to the taste salt. He had found a clue! In a voice of excitement unworthy of his office, the intelligent officer shouted:
“We’ve got ’im sir, we’ve got ’im! He’s been here! Look—sea water. We’ve got ’im!” He looked round wildly as though expecting to see the runaway appear suddenly in mid-air between the floor and the ceiling.
“It is certainly most disconcerting,” said William Bailey in evident alarm. “But wait a minute. Perhaps he came in here from the garden to see what he could get, found the door locked on the outside and made out through the garden again; that would explain everything.”
“No it wouldn’t sir,” said the bass respectfully, “it wouldn’t explain that!” And his mind, which, if slower than his colleague’s, was prone to sound conclusions, pointed his hand to the wreck of the fire, to the heaps of soot that lay upon it, and the disturbance of the fender.