Sir Clinton nodded patiently and waited for more.
“I’d just been looking over the cheque-book when I heard a noise,” Ernest pursued. “Of course, in an old house like this one often hears sounds at night, furniture cracking and doors rattling, and all that sort of thing; so I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. It was only afterwards that I remembered I’d heard it; and perhaps it had nothing to do with the burglary at all. I just mention it, because you said I was to give you all the details I could, you know.”
“What sort of sound was it?” Sir Clinton asked.
Ernest looked bewildered.
“What sort of sound was it?” he repeated. “Oh, a noise, you know. A . . . a . . .” he seemed to find the English language too limited. “It was a sound, you understand.”
“A voice?” suggested Sir Clinton.
“No, not a voice. A sound, just like a snick or a rap or something of that sort, if you see what I mean.”
“And then?”
“Oh, I paid no attention to it. In a house like this one often hears queer noises at night. It didn’t really draw my attention. I was interested in this thing about the cheque-book. So I didn’t trouble about the sound.”
Wendover was surprised at Sir Clinton’s patience, for no sign of boredom appeared on his face. In fact, he seemed keenly interested.