They had traversed a third of the distance homeward along the river road when Noyes touched Wyndham and signed to him to stop. Somewhat surprised, Wyndham drew the car to one side and slowed down as Noyes bent forward and fumbled with the catch of the door.
“I’ll walk home from here,” he said, springing out of the car. He reddened as he turned back to hold out his hand to Wyndham. “You’ve been awfully good, old chap; I shan’t forget it, but just now I must be by myself”—he hesitated—“a walk will do me good; see you later.”
Wyndham wrung his hand. “You’ve been through a lot; just walk off steam, but don’t get lost in the woods.” He started the car forward, but before rounding the next curve he looked back and was surprised to see Noyes still standing where he had left him, looking from the bluff down the valley. The ground toward the river dipped abruptly at that point and Wyndham, stopping his car, rose in his seat and gazed in the direction Noyes was facing. His only reward was an excellent view of the river and the peaceful countryside, and he was about to drop back in his seat and proceed homeward when he saw Noyes turn, cross the road, and disappear up the hillside. He had been gone but a minute when Wyndham, looking again toward the river, was surprised to see a figure standing near the river bank. The man was too far away for Wyndham to see who he was. The next instant he, too, had disappeared, and Wyndham, after a moment’s indecision, resumed his place behind the steering wheel and started for home; he was not Noyes’ keeper, and if the detectives wished to trail Noyes while he was out on bail, it was the Englishman’s responsibility and not his.
Reaching a crossroad Wyndham hesitated, then turning his car into the highway which skirted Thornedale, he continued along it until opposite the embankment where he had encountered Millicent Porter the night before and Beverly Thorne that morning. He stopped the car and, going over to the roadside, walked along it. The crushed and bedraggled condition of the creeping myrtle vines a little further on attracted his attention, and bending down he thrust his hand along until he touched the muzzle of the old cannon. Bending still farther downward he ran his hand inside the cannon and withdrew it a second later—empty.
“Could I have been wrong?” he muttered. “Millicent used to hide her toys and candy there—what more likely than that she thought of the old cannon if she wished to hide—” He broke off to stare moodily at the ground. Someone besides himself had examined the cannon since he had last been there; otherwise he would have noticed the torn vines that morning. And that man could have been none other than Beverly Thorne; he also knew of the cannon—had he, too, gone away empty-handed?
Wyndham was in no pleasant humor when he stopped at the garage and, turning over his car to the chauffeur, he went at once to the house. Instead of finding his aunt in the library as he had hoped, a stranger rose at his entrance and bowed politely.
“Is this Mr. Wyndham?”
“Yes.” Wyndham’s manner was not overly cordial; it was not customary to admit strangers to the library; they were usually shown into the reception-room. “Have you called to see my aunt, Mrs. Porter?”
“No, sir, I came to see you.” The stranger took out his card case. “I gave my card to the butler and he asked me to wait in here. I am Sam Anthony, of the United States Secret Service,” displaying his badge as he presented his card to Wyndham.
Wyndham barely glanced at the engraved pasteboard; his manner had thawed perceptibly. “Sit down, Mr. Anthony,” he said, dragging forward a chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”