Somewhat reluctantly in spirit, yet with alacrity, the Scouts obeyed their Scoutmaster's order to get out of harm's way. As they were descending the stairs the sergeant and the village policeman, both very red in the face with exertion, came hurrying up.
"Open the door instantly, Tassh," ordered Sir Silas in a loud voice.
There was no reply. Only the ticking of a grandfather's clock at the head of the stairs and the laboured breathing of the two policemen broke the silence.
"Force it," said the baronet, laconically.
Polglaze put his shoulder to the door. The good, old-fashioned oak resisted his efforts.
"Bear a hand here, Coombes," he said. "Now, together."
The sixteen-stone Cornish sergeant's weight added to the detective's modest eleven did the trick. The door, forced from its hinges, flew inwards, Coombes following it and sprawling heavily upon the floor.
The room was empty.
"He must be somewhere about," said the detective. "We know the door is locked on the inside. A man cannot go out of a room, shut a door, and lock it on the inside, can he?"
The room was in a fairly tidy state. A white table-cloth covered the table. On it were the remains of a meal, and a box of cigars that Sir Silas recognised as containing his special brand. A sporting paper and a copy of one of the county journals with an account of the supposed burglary lay on one of the chairs, the former apparently having been dropped there when the butler received his orders to attend upon Sir Silas. His watch was hanging from a hook by the side of the large mantelpiece. All pointed to the fact that Tassh's departure had been hurriedly performed; at the same time the question arose, how did he manage it?