“Plenty. And a sub-cellar no one’s been in since before we bought the property.”
“Have you any idea what’s down there?”
“How should I know? Nothing, I suppose. And anyhow, the trap-covers are locked with padlocks and sealed with an inch of dust.”
“Ah, well,” said Salt good-naturedly, “I don’t think I’ll make you sweep ’em off and unlock ’em. Only take me where they are.”
Again while he and Pendleton made their way from the conservatory, I was assailed with doubt concerning the confident Salt. Was he to fumble the case after all? For it seemed to me in trying to resolve an enigma so baffling, no opening ought to be ignored. And the Superintendent was, to say the least, eclectic, when he chose not to enter the sub-cellars.
A hand was laid on my shoulder. I looked up, and was held by those eyes with their unsearchable gleam, Maryvale’s.
“How will they ever solve this riddle and set this wrong aright, if they forget the spanning and roofing of the waters, and the deathless arm?”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Maryvale.”
“What were Sir Pharamond’s words? ‘Let traitors beware!’ Mr. Bannerlee, remember, sir, that they never found the arm of Sir Pharamond—and his tomb in old Aidenn Church attests it.”
“What on earth do you mean?”