"Doan't come in—not very often it doan't."
Harrison Smith turned away with a sigh, leaving the old man sucking at his pipe and spitting reflectively. There was no illumination to be found in that quarter.
More than ever doubtful of success he passed slowly through the village to its inland outskirts and there he paused to study the map. It might be worth while taking a casual glance at the group of three cottages marked by Barraclough with the pencil point. They were easily located but their outward appearance suggested little enough connection with the mystery. They were fashioned of grey Cornish granite with slate roofs and the inevitable fuchsia bushes in the front gardens. One of them boasted a small stock yard roughly cobbled, an open cowshed and alongside a stable with a heavy double door. As a mere matter of form Harrison Smith determined to take a glance inside but on approaching the door he found it was fastened by an iron crossbar secured to an eyelet by a large and well made padlock. The door fitted closely into its architrave and there was no crack through which a man might see into the stable. Once more his excitement revived. With a quick glance over his shoulder to satisfy himself no one was about he scrambled over the shale wall of the stock yard and passed to the rear of the building. High up under the gable a few pieces of stone had been removed for ventilation. A broken horse trough placed against the wall served him as a ladder and a moment later he was peering through the gap into the inky darkness of the stable. Nothing could be seen so, with some difficulty, he struck a match and dropped it into the space beyond. It went out in the fall but in the brief space while still alight it revealed the bright parts of a long, low racing car.
Harrison Smith dropped silently to the ground and his breath came short and sharp.
"I was right—I was right," he gasped. "Hispano Suisa by the look of it—and fast too. Shouldn't have much chance against that outfit."
Naturally enough he resolved that it would never do to allow Barraclough to get as far as the stable. On the other hand it would be a wise precaution to disable the big automobile in case of accident. But between him and the carrying out of this resolve was an iron bar and a padlock. To attempt violence against the door would surely attract attention from the house. And all at once a simple and effective alternative suggested itself. If he himself were unable to enter the stable he would take measures to prevent the entrance of any other person. There was no difficulty about that and when five minutes later he strolled down the road toward the inn it was with the comforting reflection that the keyhole of the padlock was entirely filled up with clay and grit in such a manner that no key could ever again force its way in.
He found Dirk already settling himself down for the night and Harrison
Smith smote him boisterously on the back.
"A red hot scent, my son," said he. "We're on the winning side.
Success, my boy—success."
Freddie Dirk smiled beatifically through a fog of beer.
"Goo' ni'," he murmured.