“Oh, Gilbert has a theory all his own,” laughed Belvoir in a friendly manner. “It has absolute novelty to recommend it, and artistic value. It’s the artistic side that appeals to you, isn’t it, Gilbert?”
“Truth appeals to me as well.”
“Well, really—truth!”
“What is your theory, Mr. Maryvale?” I asked with an attempt to disregard the twinges of apprehension that I felt in his presence.
“I have no theory: I have the key.”
“Gilbert means that the corporeal, material, substantial right arm of Sir Pharamond Kay, builder of the castle which now is Highglen House, has risen from its cerements and laid a certain party low. Isn’t that about it, Gilbert?”
“It is all you need to know.”
“But what’s that about the proof being in Old Aidenn Church?”
Belvoir gave a sly chuckle. “Go there some afternoon and have a look for yourself, Mr. Bannerlee. Old Aidenn is only three miles beyond New Aidenn, and both of ’em happen to be as old as Doomsday.”
“It’s as sound, anyhow, as Crofts’ idea that a murderer couldn’t escape from Aidenn Vale,” remarked Aire.