“Ask him; he can’t arrest you for it. By the way, how does the great man from Worcester happen to be so prompt in sniffing out this case?”
Crofts became nervous, as he always does when he has something to conceal. “He—he—we’re, er, in what you might call communication. Dash it all, I wish the fellow would keep his promises!”
Salt came in, just before dinner, not a merry meal. He heartily approved Harry Heatheringham.
“Do you know, sir, I wouldn’t be sorry to see him on the ground.”
“I’m damned if I know why he isn’t!” remarked Crofts, and fled to the telephone, to dictate a lengthy wire.
It transpired that the Superintendent and his aides had found not the slightest trace of recent human presence across Aidenn Water. They did not even find a new puzzle; they found nothing.
But after dinner Salt made a more fruitful inspection of the rooms on the second floor, except Maryvale’s. He had been curious to discover why the demented man had gone down the passage before shutting himself in. He found why.
“There was a box of paints and a palette and easel, and some brushes, in the store-room next to you, Mr. Bannerlee. Mr. Maryvale must have known about ’em, of course.”
“Some canvases on stretchers, too, weren’t there?” added Crofts. “All here before my time. Seems to me I’ve heard old Watts used to dabble in paints.”
“They’re all missin’ now, sir,” said Salt. “That’s what he was after.”