“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “That dear old nurse.”
“The police found no trace of what might have been present if a man had entered—I mean muddy footmarks in the house.”
“No,” I said; “that was pure accident. I took off my shoes when I went in, but with no thought of anything except the noise they might make.”
“And,” remarked Le Moyne, “of course any footprints there were outside had been partly worn away by the rain. None of any use were found, and besides for days the police had tramped over every foot of the garden.”
“Not to leave you puzzled,” said Merton, “and really it must have been rather bewildering, I beg that Greville tell you the whole story.”
“With pleasure,” I said. “Colonel Merton and I were the burglars”; and thereupon I related our adventure.
“No one suspected you,” said the count; “but what astonishes me the most is the concealment under a blazing fire of things as easily burned as papers. I see now, but even after the ashes were thrown about by you, the police refused to believe they could have been used to safeguard papers. I should like to tell your story to our old chief of police. He is now retired.”
“I see no objection,” said I.
“Better not,” said Merton. “My wife’s share should not, even now, be told.”