It had gone two o’clock. The morning’s work was done, a hasty luncheon disposed of, and the investigators were back in the dockmaster’s house discussing the curious features of the case again.
“And now, gentlemen,” said Cleek, “to the unsolved part of the riddle—the mysterious manner in which the messages were sent from this house. For sent from here they undoubtedly were, and by Sophie Borovonski; but the question of how still remains to be discovered.”
“I make it that it’s the devil’s own work, Mr. Cleek,” said MacInery, “and that there must have been some accident connected with it, the same as with the taking off of the wire-tapping chap.”
“Hardly that, I’m afraid,” replied Cleek. “I think it was accident which put a stop to the proceedings here, not one which created them. We now know perfectly well that the woman was in this house—undiscovered and unsuspected for days; and you may safely lay your life that she wasn’t idle, wasn’t stopping here for nothing. The pile of papers burnt shows very clearly that considerable intelligence had been forwarded to her brother, so it is safe to infer that she was wiring it to him constantly.”
“But how was it possible for her to obtain that information?” queried Sir Charles. “I again declare to you most solemnly, Mr. Cleek, that no one entered or left the room, that no word was spoken that could be said to have any bearing upon secret matters, so nothing could possibly be overheard; and how could the woman read documents which were never out of our sight for a minute? Granted that she had some means of wiring intelligence to her brother—indeed, we now know that to have been the case—how under God’s heaven did she obtain that intelligence?”
“Well, that’s a facer, certainly, Sir Charles; but with such a past-mistress of ingenuity as she—well, you never know. Sure she couldn’t possibly have managed to get into the room and hide herself somewhere, you think?”
“I am positive she couldn’t. The thing isn’t possible. There’s no place where she could have hidden. Come in and see.”
He unlocked the door and, followed by the rest, led the way into the room where the inquiry into the dockmaster’s affairs had been held. A glance about it was sufficient to corroborate Sir Charles’s statement.
On one side stood a large fireproof safe, closely locked; on the other were two windows—iron-grilled and with inside shutters of steel; at one end was a large flat-topped table, at which Sir Charles and MacInery had conducted their investigation of the books, et cetera, and at the other a smaller writing-table, upon which stood a typewriter set on a sound-deadening square of felt, and over which hung a white-disked electric bulb. There were five chairs, and not another mortal thing. No cupboard, no wardrobe, no chest—nothing under heaven in which a creature any bigger than a cat could have hidden.
“You see,” said Sir Charles, with a wave of the hand, “she couldn’t have hidden in here, neither could she have hidden outside and overheard, for nothing was said that could have been of any use to her.”