As he turned the corner he came face to face with another constable who was hurrying up.
“Did you hear my mate shouting a moment ago, sir?” asked the man breathlessly.
“No,” replied Allen halting. “I heard no shouting. When?”
“A few moments ago. The shouts came from this direction. He was crying for help.”
“Well, I heard nothing,” declared Allen, still standing as the constable, proceeding, passed the gate behind which his colleague lay hidden.
Then Allen laughed softly to himself and set out on the high road which led to Kingston.
“A narrow shave!” he remarked to himself aloud. “I wonder what Barclay will say when they go to Underhill Road!”
Not until eight o’clock in the morning did a milkman going his round find the constable lying as though asleep in the little front garden. He tried to rouse him, but not being able to do so, called the nearest policeman who summoned the ambulance. At first the inspector thought the man intoxicated, but the divisional surgeon pronounced that he had been gassed, and it was several hours later, when in the hospital, that he managed to give an intelligible account of what had occurred.
About noon an inspector called upon Mr Barclay at Underhill Road, but he had gone out.
“Did you find any of your basement windows open when you got up this morning?” he asked the housekeeper, who replied in the negative. Then the new parlour-maid being called declared that she had fastened all the windows securely before retiring, and that they were all shut when she came down at seven o’clock.