The Layton Court Mystery

by

Anthony Berkeley

Contents

To
my Father

My dear Father,

I know of nobody who likes a detective story more than you do, with the possible exception of myself. So if I write one and you read it, we ought to be able to amuse ourselves at any rate.

I hope you will notice that I have tried to make the gentleman who eventually solves the mystery behave as nearly as possible as he might be expected to do in real life. That is to say, he is very far removed from a sphinx and he does make a mistake or two occasionally. I have never believed very much in those hawk-eyed, tight-lipped gentry, who pursue their silent and inexorable way straight to the heart of things without ever once overbalancing or turning aside after false goals; and I cannot see why even a detective story should not aim at the creation of a natural atmosphere, just as much as any other work of the lighter fiction.

In the same way I should like you to observe that I have set down quite plainly every scrap of evidence just as it is discovered, so that the reader has precisely the same data at his disposal as has the detective. This seems to me the only fair way of doing things. To hold up till the last chapter some vital piece of evidence (which, by the way, usually renders the solution of the puzzle perfectly simple), and to achieve your surprise by allowing the detective to arrest his man before the evidence on which he is doing so is ever so much as hinted to the reader at all, is, to my mind, most decidedly not playing the game.

With which short homily, I hand the book over to you by way of some very slight return for all that you have done for me.

CHAPTER I.
Eight o’Clock in the Morning

William, the gardener at Layton Court, was a man of melancholy deliberation.

It did not pay, William held, to rush things; especially the important things of life, such as the removal of greenfly from roses. Before action was taken, the matter should be studied, carefully and unhappily, from every possible point of view, particularly the worst.

On this summer’s morning William had been gazing despondently at the roses for just over three quarters of an hour. Pretty soon now he would feel himself sufficiently fortified to begin operations on them.

“Do you always count the greenfly before you slaughter them, friend William?” asked a sudden voice behind him.

William, who had been bending forward to peer gloomily into the greenfly-blown intricacies of a Caroline Testout, slewed hastily about. He hated being accosted at the best of times, but there was a spontaneous heartiness about this voice which grated intolerably on all his finer feelings. The added fact that the act of slewing hastily about had brought a portion of his person into sharp and painful contact with another rose bush did not tend to make life any more cheerful for William at that moment.

“Weren’t a-countin’ em,” he observed curtly; and added naughtily under his breath, “Drat that there Mr. Sheringham!”

“Oh! I thought you must be totting up the bag in advance,” remarked the newcomer gravely from behind an enormous pipe. “What’s your record bag of greenfly, William? Runs into thousands of brace, I suppose. Well, no doubt it’s an interesting enough sport for people of quiet tastes. Like stamp-collecting. You ever collect stamps, William?”

“Noa,” said William, gazing sombrely at a worm. William was not one of your chatty conversationalists.

“Really?” replied his interlocutor with interest. “Mad on it myself once. As a boy, of course. Silly game though, really, I agree with you.” He followed the direction of William’s eyes. “Ah, the early morning worm!” he continued brightly. “And defying all the rules of its calling by refusing to act as provender for the early bird. Highly unprofessional conduct! There’s a lesson for all of us in that worm, William, if I could only think what it is. I’ll come back and tell you when I’ve had time to go into the matter properly.”

William grunted moodily. There were many things in this world of which William disapproved; but Mr. Roger Sheringham had a class all to himself. The gospel of laughter held no attractions for that stern materialist and executioner of greenfly.

Roger Sheringham remained singularly unperturbed by the sublime heights of William’s disapproval. With hands thrust deep into the pockets of a perfectly incredible pair of gray flannel trousers he sauntered off among the rose beds, cheerfully poisoning the fragrant atmosphere with clouds of evil smoke from the peculiarly unsavoury pipe which he wore in the corner of his rather wide mouth. William’s eloquent snorts followed him unheeded; Roger had already forgotten William’s existence.

There are many who hold that eight o’clock in the morning is the most perfect time of a summer’s day. The air, they advance, is by that time only pleasantly warmed through, without being burned to a cinder as it is an hour or two later. And there is still quite enough dew sparkling upon leaf and flower to give the poets plenty to talk about without forcing them to rise at six o’clock for their inspiration. The theory is certainly one well worth examination.

At the moment when this story opens Mr. Roger Sheringham was engaged in examining it.

Not that Roger Sheringham was a poet. By no means. But he was the next worst thing to it—an author. And it is part of an author’s stock-in-trade to know exactly what a rose garden looks like at eight o’clock on a summer morning—that and everything else in the world besides. Roger Sheringham was refreshing his mental notes on the subject.

While he is doing so let us turn the tables by examining him. We are going to see quite a lot of him in the near future, and first impressions are always important.

Perhaps the first thing we notice about him, even before we have had time to take in his physical characteristics, is an atmosphere of unbounded, exuberant energy; Roger Sheringham is evidently one of those dynamic persons who seem somehow to live two minutes to everybody else’s one. Whatever he happens to be doing, he does it as if it were the only thing that he had ever really intended to do in life at all. To see him now, looking over this rose garden, you would think that he is actually learning it by heart, so absorbedly is he gazing at it. At least you would be ready to bet that he could tell you afterwards just how many plants there are in each bed, how many roses on each plant, and how many greenfly on each rose. Whether this habit of observation is natural, or whether it is part of the training of his craft, there can be no doubt that Roger possesses it in a very high degree.

In appearance he is somewhat below the average height, and stockily built; with a round rather than a long face, and two shrewd, twinkling gray eyes. The shapeless trousers and the disreputable old Norfolk jacket he is wearing argue a certain eccentricity and contempt for convention that is just a little too self-conscious to be quite natural without going so far as to degenerate into a pose. The short-stemmed, big-bowled pipe in the corner of his mouth seems a very part of the man himself. Add that his age is over thirty and under forty; that his school had been Winchester and his university Oxford; and that he had (or at any rate professed) the profoundest contempt for his reading public, which was estimated by his publishers at a surprisingly large figure—and you have Roger Sheringham, Esq., at your service.

The sound of footsteps approaching along the broad gravel path, which separated the rose garden from the lawn at the back of the house, roused him from his studious contemplation of early morning phenomena. The next moment a large, broad-shouldered young man, with a pleasing and cheerful face, came into sight round the bend.

“Good heavens!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the liveliest consternation. “Alec! And an hour and a half before it need be! What’s wrong with you this morning, Alec?”

“I might ask the same of you,” grinned the young man. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you down before ten o’clock since we came here.”

“That only gives us three mornings. Still, a palpable point. By the way, where’s our worthy host? I thought it was a distressing habit of his to spend an hour in the garden every morning before breakfast; at least, so he was telling me at great length yesterday afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” said Alec indifferently. “But what brings you here anyway, Roger?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve been working. Studying the local flora and fauna, the latter ably represented by William. You know, you ought to cultivate William, Alec. You’d have a lot in common, I feel sure.”

They fell into step and strolled among the scattered beds.

“You working at this hour?” Alec remarked. “I thought you wrote all your tripe between midnight and dawn.”

“You’re a young man of singular literary acuteness,” sighed Roger. “Hardly anybody would dare to call my work tripe. Yet you and I know that it is, don’t we? But for goodness’ sake don’t tell anyone else your opinion. My income depends on my circulation, you know; and if it once got noised about that Alexander Grierson considered——”

Alec landed a punch on the literary thorax. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut up!” he grunted. “Don’t you ever stop talking, Roger?”

“Yes,” Roger admitted regretfully. “When I’m asleep. It’s a great trial to me. That’s why I so much hate going to bed. But you haven’t told me why you’re up and about so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” responded Alec, a trifle sheepishly.

“Ah!” Roger stopped and scrutinised his companion’s face closely. “I shall have to study you, Alec, you know. Awfully sorry if it’s going to inconvenience you; but there’s my duty to the great British public, and that’s plain enough, my interesting young lover. So now perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason why you’re polluting this excellent garden with your unseemly presence at this unnecessary hour?”

“Oh, stow it, you blighter!” growled the interesting young lover, blushing hotly.

Roger regarded him with close attention.

“Notes on the habits of the newly engaged animal, male genus,” he murmured softly. “One—reverses all its habits and instincts by getting up and seeking fresh air when it might still be frowsting in bed. Two—assaults its closest friends without the least provocation. Three—turns a bright brick-red when asked the simplest question. Four——”

“Will you shut up, or have I got to throw you into a rose bed?” shouted the harassed Alec.

“I’ll shut up,” said Roger promptly. “But only on William’s account; please understand that. I feel that William would simply hate to see me land on one of his cherished rose bushes. It would depress him more than ever, and I shrink from contemplating what that might mean. In passing, how is it that you were coming from the direction of the lodge just now and not from the house?”

“You’re infernally curious this morning,” Alec smiled. “If you want to know, I’ve been down to the village.”

“So early? Alec, there must be something wrong with you, after all. And why on earth have you been down to the village?”

“To—well, if you must have it, to post a letter,” said Alec reluctantly.

“Ah! A letter so important, so remarkably urgent that it couldn’t wait for the ordinary collection from the house?” Roger mused with interest. “Now I wonder if that letter could have been addressed, let us say, to The Times? ‘Marvellous, Holmes! How could you have surmised that?’ ‘You know my methods, Watson. It is only necessary to apply them.’ Well, Alexander Watson, am I right?”

“You’re not,” said Alec shortly. “It was to my bookmaker.”

“Well, all I can say is that it ought to have been to The Times,” retorted Roger indignantly. “In fact, I don’t mind going so far as to add that it’s hardly playing the game on your part that it shouldn’t have been to The Times. Here you go laying a careful train of facts all pointing to the conclusion that this miserable letter of yours was to The Times, and then you turn round and announce calmly that it was to your bookmaker. If it comes to that, why write to your bookmaker at all? A telegram is the correct medium for conducting a correspondence with one’s bookmaker. Surely you know that?”

“Doesn’t it ever hurt you?” Alec sighed wearily. “Don’t you ever put your larynx out of joint or something? I should have thought that——”

“Yes, I should have liked to hear your little medical lecture so much,” Roger interrupted rapidly, with a perfectly grave face. “Unfortunately a previous engagement of the most pressing urgency robs me of the pleasure. I’ve just remembered that I’ve got to go and see a man about—— Now what was it about? Oh, yes! I remember. A goat! Well, good-bye, Alec. See you at breakfast, I hope.”

He seized his astonished companion’s hand, shook it affectionately, and walked quickly away in the direction of the village. Alec gazed after him with open mouth. In spite of the length of their acquaintance, he had never got quite used to Roger.

A light tread on the grass behind him caused him to turn round, and what he saw supplied the reason for Roger’s hurried departure. A quick smile of appreciation flitted across his face. Then he hurried eagerly forward, and all thought of Roger was wiped from his mind. So soon are we forgotten when somebody more important comes along.

The girl who was advancing across the grass was small and slight, with large gray eyes set wide apart, and a mass of fair hair which the slanting rays of the sun behind her turned into a bright golden mist about her head. She was something more than pretty; for mere prettiness always implies a certain insipidity, and there was certainly no trace of that in Barbara Shannon’s face. On the contrary, the firm lines of her chin alone, to take only one of her small features, showed a strength of character unusual in a girl of her age; one hardly looks for that sort of thing at feminine nineteen or thereabouts.

Alec caught his breath as he hurried towards her. It was only yesterday that she had promised to marry him, and he had not quite got accustomed to it yet.

“Dearest!” he exclaimed, making as if to take her in his arms (William had long since disappeared in search of weapons with which to rout the greenfly). “Dearest, how topping of you to guess I should be waiting for you out here!”

Barbara put out a small hand to detain him. Her face was very grave and there were traces of tears about her eyes.

“Alec,” she said in a low voice, “I’ve got rather bad news for you. Something very dreadful has happened—something that I can’t possibly tell you about, so please don’t ask me, dear; it would only make me more unhappy still. But I can’t be engaged to you any longer. You must just forget that yesterday ever happened at all. It’s out of the question now. Alec I—I can’t marry you.”

CHAPTER II.
An Interrupted Breakfast

Mr. Victor Stanworth, the host of the little party now in progress at Layton Court, was, according to the reports of his friends, who were many and various, a thoroughly excellent sort of person. What his enemies thought about him—that is, provided that he had any—is not recorded. On the face of it, at any rate, however, the existence of the latter may be doubted. Genial old gentlemen of sixty or so, somewhat more than comfortably well off, who keep an excellent cellar and equally excellent cigars and entertain with a large-hearted good humour amounting almost to open-handedness, are not the sort of people to have enemies. And all that Mr. Victor Stanworth was; that, and, perhaps, a trifle more.

If he had one noticeable failing—so slight that it could hardly be called a fault—it was perhaps the rather too obvious interest he displayed in the sort of people whose pictures get into the illustrated weeklies. Not that Mr. Stanworth was a snob, or anything approaching it; he would as soon exchange a joke with a dustman as a duke, though it is possible that he would prefer a millionaire to either. But he had not attempted to conceal his satisfaction when his younger brother, now dead these ten years or more, had succeeded in marrying (against all expectation and the more than plainly expressed wishes of the lady’s family) Lady Cynthia Anglemere, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grassingham. Indeed, he had gone so far as to express his approval in the eminently satisfactory form of settling a thousand a year on the lady in question for so long as she continued to bear the name of Stanworth. It is noticeable, however, that a condition of the settlement was the provision that she should continue the use of her title also. Gossip, of course, hinted that this interest sprung from the fact that the origins of the Stanworth family were themselves not all that they might be; but whether there was any truth in this or not, it was beyond question that, whatever these origins might be, they were by now so decently interred in such a thick shroud of golden obscurity that nobody had had either the wish or the patience to uncover them.

Mr. Stanworth was a bachelor, and it was generally understood that he was a person of some little importance in that mysterious Mecca of finance, the City. Anything further than that was not specified, a closer definition being rightly held to be unnecessary. But the curious could find, if they felt so minded, the name of Mr. Stanworth on the board of directors of several small but flourishing and thoroughly respectable little concerns whose various offices were scattered within a half-mile radius of the Mansion House. In any case these did not seem to make any such exorbitant demands on Mr. Stanworth’s time as to exclude a full participation in the more pleasant occupations of life. Two or three days a week in London in the winter, with sometimes as few as one a fortnight during the summer, appeared to be quite enough not only to preserve his financial reputation among his friends, but also to maintain that large and healthy income which was a source of such innocent pleasure to so many.

It has been said already that Mr. Stanworth was in the habit of entertaining both largely and broad-mindedly; and this is no less than the truth. It was his pleasure to gather round him a select little party of entertaining and cheerful persons, usually young ones. And each year he rented a different place in the summer for this purpose; the larger, the older, and possessing the longer string of aristocratic connections, the better. The winter months he passed either abroad or in his comfortable bachelor flat in St. James’s Street.

This year his choice of a summer residence had fallen upon Layton Court, with its Jacobean gables, its lattice windows, and its oak-panelled rooms. Mr. Stanworth was thoroughly satisfied with Layton Court. He had been installed there for rather more than a month, and the little party now in full swing was the second of the summer’s series. His sister-in-law, Lady Stanworth, always acted as hostess for him on these occasions.

Neither Roger nor Alec had had any previous acquaintance with their host; and their inclusion in the party had been due to a chain of circumstances. Mrs. Shannon, an old friend of Lady Stanworth’s, had been asked in the first place; and with her Barbara. Then Mr. Stanworth had winked jovially at his sister-in-law and observed that Barbara was getting a deuced pretty girl in these days, and wasn’t there any particular person she would be glad to see at Layton Court, eh? Lady Stanworth had given it as her opinion that Barbara might not be displeased to encounter a certain Mr. Alexander Grierson about the place; whereupon Mr. Stanworth, having ascertained in a series of rapid questions that Mr. Alexander Grierson was a young man of considerable worldly possessions (which interested him very much), had played cricket three years running for Oxford (which interested him still more), and was apparently a person of unimpeachable character and morals (which did not interest him at all), had given certain injunctions; with the result that two days later Mr. Alexander Grierson received a charming little note, to which he had hastened to reply with gratified alacrity. As to Roger, it had come somehow to Mr. Stanworth’s ears (as in fact things had a habit of doing) that he was a close friend of Alec’s; and there was always room in any house which happened to be occupied by Mr. Stanworth for a person of the world-wide reputation and attainments of Roger Sheringham. A second charming little note had followed in the wake of the first.

Roger had been delighted with Mr. Stanworth. He was a man after his own heart, this jolly old gentleman, with his interesting habit of pressing half-crown cigars and pre-war whiskey on one at all hours of the day from ten in the morning onwards; his red, genial face, always on the point of bursting into loud, whole-hearted laughter if not actually doing so; his way of poking sly fun at his dignified, aristocratic sister-in-law; and the very faint trace of a remote vulgarity about him that only seemed, in his particular case, to add a more intimate, almost a more genuine note to his dealings with one. Yes, Roger had found old Mr. Stanworth a character well worth studying. In the three days since they had first met their acquaintance had developed rapidly into something that was very near to friendship.

And there you have Mr. Victor Stanworth, at present of Layton Court, in the county of Hertfordshire. A man, you would say (and as Roger himself was saying in amazed perplexity less than an hour later), without a single care in the world.

But it is already ten minutes since the breakfast gong sounded; and if we wish to see for ourselves what sort of people Mr. Stanworth had collected round him, it is quite time that we were making a move towards the dining room.

Alec and Barbara were there already: the former with a puzzled, hurt expression, that hinted plainly enough at the inexplicable disaster which had just overtaken his wooing; the latter so resolutely natural as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to smoothe over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of nonsense. Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense judiciously applied.

“Morning, Barbara,” he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for bohemianism, and it saved trouble. “Going to be an excellent day, I fancy. Shall I hack some ham for you, or do you feel like a boiled egg? You do? It’s a curious feeling, isn’t it?”

Barbara smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Sheringham,” she said, lifting the cosies off an array of silver that stood at one end of the table. “Shall I give you tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please. Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a mouth organ. It doesn’t go. Well, what’s the programme to-day? Tennis from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like that?”

“Don’t you like tennis, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Barbara innocently.

“Like it? I love it. One of these days I must get someone to teach me how to play it. What are you doing this morning, for instance, Alec?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” Alec grinned, “and that’s playing tennis with you.”

“And why not, you ungrateful blighter, after all I’ve done for you?” demanded Roger indignantly.

“Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,” Alec retorted. “Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful lot of trouble.”

Roger turned to Barbara. “Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you. My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but—— Oh, hullo, Major. We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you game?”

The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly to Barbara. “Good-morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.”

He went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the door opened again and the butler entered.

“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low voice.

The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat and followed the other out of the room.

“Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed.

“Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?”

“Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would you call him exactly? A private secretary?”

“Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.”

“Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?” Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything; the atmosphere was still a little strained. “I thought when you left the army, you had a pension.”

“So you do,” Roger returned. “But pensions don’t amount to much in any case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.”

“Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?” observed Alec. “Can I have another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?”

“Oh, he’s all right,” Roger pronounced. “But I wouldn’t like to be out with that butler alone on a dark night.”

“He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,” said Barbara with decision, manipulating the coffee-pot. “He positively frightens me at times. He looks more like a prize-fighter than a butler. What do you think, Mr. Sheringham?”

“As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,” Alec put in. “He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.”

“I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,” Roger murmured bloodthirstily. “There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.”

“Thanks,” Alec laughed. “Not to-day, I think. He’d simply wipe the floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.”

“And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let me know. I’ll put up a purse all right.”

“Let’s change the subject,” said Barbara, with a little shiver. “Oh! Good-morning, Mrs. Plant. Hullo, Mother, dear! Had a good night?”

Mrs. Shannon, small and fair like her daughter, was in all other respects as unlike Barbara as could well be imagined. In place of that young lady’s characterful little face, Mrs. Shannon’s features were doll-like and insipid. She was pretty enough, in a negative, plump sort of way; but interest in her began and ended with her appearance. Barbara’s attitude towards her was that of patient protectiveness. To see the two together one would think, apart from their ages, that Barbara was the mother and Mrs. Shannon the daughter.

“A good night?” she repeated peevishly. “My dear child, how many times must I tell you that it is quite impossible for me to get any sleep at all in this wretched place? If it isn’t the birds, it’s the dogs; and if it isn’t the dogs, it’s——”

“Yes, Mother,” Barbara interrupted soothingly. “What would you like to eat?”

“Oh, let me,” exclaimed Alec, jumping up. “And, Mrs. Plant, what are you going to have?”

Mrs. Plant, a graceful, dark-haired lady of twenty-six or so, with a husband in the Soudanese Civil Service, indicated a preference for ham; Mrs. Shannon consented to be soothed with a fried sole. Conversation became general.

Major Jefferson looked in once and glanced round the room in a worried way. “Nobody’s seen Mr. Stanworth this morning, have they?” he asked the company in general, and receiving no reply, went out again.

Barbara and Roger engaged in a fierce discussion on the relative merits of tennis and golf, for the latter of which Roger had acquired a half-blue at Oxford. Mrs. Shannon explained at some length to Alec over her second sole why she could never eat much breakfast nowadays. Mary Plant came to the aid of Barbara in proving that whereas golf was a game for the elderly and crippled, tennis was the only possible summer occupation for the young and energetic. The room buzzed.

The appearance of Lady Stanworth caused the conversation to stop abruptly. In the ordinary course of events she breakfasted in her own room. A tall, stately woman, with hair just beginning to turn gray, she was never anything but cool and dignified; but this morning her face seemed even more serious than usual. For a moment she stood in the doorway, looking round the room as Major Jefferson had done a few minutes before.

Then, “Good-morning, everybody,” she said slowly. “Mr. Sheringham and Mr. Grierson, can I have a word with you for a moment?”

In deep silence Roger and Alec pushed back their chairs and rose. It was obvious that something out of the ordinary had occurred, but nobody quite liked to ask a question. In any case, Lady Stanworth’s attitude did not encourage curiosity. She waited till they had reached the door, and motioned for them to precede her. When they had passed through, she shut the door carefully after her.

“What’s up, Lady Stanworth?” Roger asked bluntly, as soon as they were alone.

Lady Stanworth bit her lip and hesitated, as if making up her mind. “Nothing, I hope,” she said, after a little pause. “But nobody has seen my brother-in-law this morning and his bed has not been slept in, while the library door and windows are locked on the inside. Major Jefferson sent for me and we have talked it over and decided to break the door down. He suggested that it would be as well if you and Mr. Grierson were present also, in case—in case a witness outside the household should be required. Will you come with me?”

She led the way in the direction of the library, and the other two followed.

“You’ve called to him, I suppose?” Alec remarked.

“Yes. Major Jefferson and Graves have both called to him, here and outside the library windows.”

“He’s probably fainted or something in the library,” said Roger reassuringly, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. “Or it may be a stroke. Is his heart at all weak?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard, Mr. Sheringham.”

By the library door Major Jefferson and the butler were waiting; the former impassive as ever, the latter clearly ill at ease.

“Ah, here you are,” said the Major. “Sorry to bother you like this, but you understand. Now, Grierson, you and Graves and myself are the biggest; if we put our shoulders to the door together I think we can force it open. It’s pretty strong, though. You by the handle, Graves; and you next, Grierson. That’s right. Now, then, one—two—three—heave!”

At the third attempt there was the sound of tearing woodwork, and the heavy door swung on its hinges. Major Jefferson stepped quickly over the threshold. The others hung back. In a moment he was back again, his sallow face the merest trifle paler.

“What is it?” asked Lady Stanworth anxiously. “Is Victor there?”

“I don’t think you had better go in for the moment, Lady Stanworth,” said Major Jefferson slowly, intercepting her as she stepped forward. “Mr. Stanworth appears to have shot himself.”

CHAPTER III.
Mr. Sheringham is Puzzled

Like many of the other rooms at Layton Court, the library had been largely modernised. Dark oak panelling still covered the walls, but the big open fireplace, with its high chimney-piece, had been blocked up and a modern grate inserted. The room was a large one and (assuming that we are standing just inside the hall with our backs to the front door) formed the right-hand corner of the back of the house corresponding with the dining room on the other side. Between these two was a smaller room, of the same breadth as the hall, which was used as a gunroom, storeroom, and general convenience room. The two rooms on either side of the deep hall in the front of the house were the drawing room, on the same side as the library, and the morning room opposite. A narrow passage between the morning room and the dining room led to the servants’ quarters.

In the side of the library which faced the lawn at the back of the house had been set a pair of wide French windows, as was also the case in the dining room; while in the other outer wall, looking over the rose garden, was a large modern window of the sash type, with a deep window seat below it set in the thickness of the wall. The only original window still remaining was a small lattice one in the corner on the left of the sash window. The door that led into the room from the hall was in the corner diagonal to the lattice window. The fireplace exactly faced the French windows.

The room was not overcrowded with furniture. An armchair or two stood by the fireplace; and there was a small table, bearing a typewriter, by the wall on the same side as the door. In the angle between the sash window and the fireplace stood a deep, black-covered settee. The most important piece of furniture was a large writing table in the exact centre of the room facing the sash window. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

This was the picture that had flashed across Roger’s retentive brain as he stood in the little group outside the library door and listened to Major Jefferson’s curt, almost brutal announcement. With instinctive curiosity he wondered where the grim addition to the scene was lying. The next moment the same instinct had caused him to turn and scan the face of his hostess.

Lady Stanworth had not screamed or fainted; she was not that sort of person. Indeed, beyond a slight and involuntary catching of her breath she betrayed little or no emotion.

“Shot himself?” she repeated calmly. “Are you quite sure?”

“I’m afraid there can be no doubt at all,” Major Jefferson said gravely. “He must have been dead for some hours.”

“And you think I had better not go in?”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” said the Major shortly.

“Very well. But we had better telephone for a doctor in any case, I suppose. I will do that. Victor called in Doctor Matthewson when he had hay fever a few weeks ago, didn’t he? I’ll send for him.”

“And the police,” said Jefferson. “They’ll have to be notified. I’ll do that.”

“I can let them know at the same time,” Lady Stanworth returned, moving across the hall in the direction of the telephone.

Roger and Alec exchanged glances.

“I always said that was a wonderful woman,” whispered the former behind his hand, as they prepared to follow the Major into the library.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” asked the butler from the doorway.

Major Jefferson glanced at him sharply. “Yes; you come in, too, Graves. It makes another witness.”

The four men filed in silence into the room. The curtains were still drawn, and the light was dim. With an abrupt movement Jefferson strode across and pulled back the curtains from the French windows. Then he turned and nodded silently towards the big writing table.

In the chair behind this, which was turned a little away from the table, sat, or rather reclined, the body of Mr. Stanworth. His right hand, which was dangling by his side almost to the floor, was tightly clenched about a small revolver, the finger still convulsively clasping the trigger. In the centre of his forehead, just at the base of his hair, was a little circular hole, the edges of which looked strangely blackened. His head lolled indolently over the top of the chair-back, and his wide-open eyes were staring glassily at the ceiling.

It was, as Jefferson had said, not a pretty sight.

Roger was the first to break the silence. “Well, I’m damned!” he said softly. “What on earth did he want to go and do that for?”

“Why does anyone do it?” asked Jefferson, staring at the still figure as if trying to read its secret. “Because he has some damned good reason of his own, I suppose.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. “No doubt. But old Stanworth of all people! I shouldn’t have thought that he’d got a care in the world. Not that I knew him particularly well, of course; but I was only saying to you yesterday, Alec——” He broke off suddenly. Alec’s face had gone a ghastly white, and he was gazing with horrified eyes at the figure in the chair.

“I was forgetting,” Roger muttered in a low voice to Jefferson. “The boy was too young to be in the war; he’s only twenty-four. It’s a bit of a shock, one’s first corpse. Especially this sort of thing. Phew! There’s a smell of death in here. Let’s get some of these windows open.”

He turned and threw open the French windows, letting a draught of warm air into the room. “Locked on the inside all right,” he commented as he did so. “So are the other two. Here, Alec, come outside for a minute. It’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit turned up.”

Alec smiled faintly; he had managed to pull himself together and the colour was returning to his cheeks. “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, a little shakily. “It was just a bit of a shock at first.”

The breeze had fluttered the papers on the writing table and one fell to the ground. Graves, the butler, stepped forward to pick it up. Before replacing it he glanced idly at something that was written on it.

“Sir!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Look at this!”

He handed the paper to Major Jefferson, who read it eagerly.

“Anything of interest?” Roger asked curiously.

“Very much so,” Jefferson replied dryly. “It’s a statement. I’ll read it to you. ‘To Whom it May Concern. For reasons that concern only myself, I have decided to kill myself.’ And his signature at the bottom.” He twisted the piece of paper thoughtfully in his hand. “But I wish he’d said what his reasons were,” he added in puzzled tones.

“Yes, it’s a remarkably reticent document,” Roger agreed. “But it’s plain enough, isn’t it? May I have a look at it?”

He took it from the other’s outstretched hand and examined it with interest. The paper was slightly creased, and the message itself was typewritten. The signature, Victor Stanworth, was bold and firm; but just above it was another attempt, which had only got as far as V-i-c and looked as if it had been written with a pen insufficiently supplied with ink.

“He must have gone about the business with extraordinary deliberation,” Roger commented. “He goes to the trouble of typing this instead of writing it; and when he finds he hadn’t dipped his pen deep enough in the ink-pot, calmly signs it again. And just look at that signature! Not a trace of nerves in it, is there?”

He handed the paper back, and the Major looked at it again.

“Stanworth was never much troubled with nerves,” he remarked shortly. “And the signature’s genuine enough. I’d take my oath on that.”

Alec could not help feeling that Jefferson’s words had supplied an answer to a question which Roger had purposely refrained from asking.

“Well, I don’t know much about this sort of thing,” Roger observed, “but I suppose one thing’s certain. The body mustn’t be touched before the police come.”

“Even in the case of a suicide?” Jefferson asked doubtfully.

“In any case, surely.”

“I shouldn’t have thought it would have mattered in this case,” said Jefferson, a little reluctantly. “Still, perhaps you’re right. Not that it matters either way,” he added quickly.

There was a tap on the half-open door.

“I’ve telephoned to Doctor Matthewson and the police,” came Lady Stanworth’s even tones. “They’re sending an inspector over from Elchester at once. And now don’t you think we ought to tell the others in the dining room?”

“I think so certainly,” said Roger, who happened to be nearest to the door. “There’s no sense in delaying it. Besides, if we tell them now it will give them time to get over it a little before the police come.”

“Quite so,” said Jefferson. “And the servants as well. Graves, you’d better go and break the news in the kitchen. Be as tactful as you can.”

“Very good, sir.”

With a last, but quite expressionless glance at his late master, the burly figure turned and walked slowly out of the room.

“I’ve seen people more cut up at the death of a man they’ve lived with for twenty years than that gentleman,” Roger murmured in Alec’s ear, raising his eyebrows significantly.

“And I wish you would be good enough to break the news in the dining room, Major Jefferson,” Lady Stanworth remarked. “I really hardly feel up to it myself.”

“Of course,” said Jefferson quickly. “In fact, I think it would be much better if you went up to your room and rested a little before the police get here, Lady Stanworth. This is bound to be a very great strain. I will tell one of the maids to take you up a cup of tea.”

Lady Stanworth looked a trifle surprised, and for a moment it seemed that she was going to object to this course. Evidently, however, she changed her mind if that was the case; for she only said quietly, “Thank you. Yes, I think that would be best. Please let me know directly the police arrive.”

She made her way, a little wearily, up the broad staircase and disappeared from view.

Jefferson turned to Roger. “I think as a matter of fact that I should prefer you to tell the ladies, if you would, Sheringham. You’d do it much better than I. I’m not much use at putting unpleasant things in a pleasant way.”

“Certainly I will, if you’d rather. Alec, you’d better stay here with the Major.”

Jefferson hesitated. “As a matter of fact, Grierson, I was wondering if you would be good enough to run across to the stables and tell Chapman to have the car ready all day to-day, as it might be wanted any time at a moment’s notice. Will you?”

“Of course,” said Alec promptly and hurried off, only too glad of the opportunity for a little action. He had not yet quite got over that first sight of the dead man in the streaming sunshine.

Roger walked slowly across to the dining-room door; but he was not pondering over what he was going to say. He was repeating to himself over and over again, “Why was Jefferson so infernally anxious to get rid of the four of us in such a hurry? Why? Why? Why?”

With his hand on the very knob of the door a possible answer came to him, in the form of another question.

“Why was Jefferson so reluctant to admit that the body must not be touched before the arrival of the police?”

It was a somewhat distrait Roger who opened the dining-room door, and proceeded to acquaint three astounded ladies with the somewhat surprising fact that their host had just shot himself through the head.

Their reception of his news did not speak very well for Roger’s tactfulness. It may have been that his preoccupation with what was in his mind prevented him from doing justice to himself; but the fact remains that even he was considerably startled by the way in which his hearers behaved, and it took a good deal to startle Roger.

Mrs. Shannon, it is true, merely remarked with a not unjustified annoyance that it was really exceedingly awkward as she had made all her arrangements for being here another ten days and now she supposed they would have to leave at once, and where on earth did anyone think they could go to with the house in town shut up and all the servants away? Barbara rose slowly to her feet, with every trace of colour drained out of her face, swayed a little and, sitting down abruptly, stared with unseeing eyes out into the sunlit garden. Mrs. Plant incontinently and silently fainted.

But Roger had other things to do than dancing attendance upon fainting and hysterical ladies. Leaving Mrs. Plant somewhat unceremoniously to the ministrations of Barbara and her mother, he hurried back to the library, taking care to step lightly. The sight that met his eyes was exactly what he had expected.

Major Jefferson was bending over the dead man, rapidly and methodically searching his pockets.

“Hullo,” Roger remarked easily from the doorway. “Putting him straight a bit?”

The Major started violently. Then he bit his lip and slowly straightened his back.

“Yes,” he said slowly, after the least possible pause. “Yes. I can’t bear to see this constrained attitude he’s in.”

“It’s beastly,” Roger said sympathetically, advancing unconcernedly into the room and shutting the door behind him. “I know. But I shouldn’t move him if I were you. Not till the police have seen him, at any rate. They’re rather particular about that sort of thing, I believe.”

Jefferson shrugged his shoulders, frowning. “It seems damned nonsense to me,” he said bluntly.

“Look here,” Roger remarked suddenly, “you mustn’t let this thing get on your nerves, you know. Come and take a turn in the garden with me.”

He linked his arm through the other’s and, observing his obvious hesitation, drew him towards the open windows. “Do you all the good in the world,” he persisted.

Jefferson allowed himself to be persuaded.

For some minutes the two strolled up and down the lawn, and Roger took some care to keep the conversation on indifferent topics. But in spite of all his efforts, Jefferson kept looking at his watch, and it was clear that he was counting the minutes before the police might be expected. What Roger, watch how he might, was unable to discover was whether his companion was eager for their arrival or the reverse. The only thing he knew for certain was that this imperturbable man was, for some reason or other, very badly rattled. It might be the simple fact of his employer’s unseemly end which had caused this unwonted state of affairs, Roger thought; for certainly Jefferson and old Stanworth had been a very long time together. On the other hand, it might not. And if this was not the reason, what was?

When they had made the circuit of the rose garden three times, Jefferson halted suddenly.

“The police should be here at any minute now,” he said abruptly. “I’m going to walk down towards the lodge to meet them. I’ll call you when we want you.”

Anything more obvious in the way of a congé could hardly be imagined. Roger accepted it with the best grace he could.

“Very well,” he nodded. “I’ll be somewhere out here.”

Jefferson disappeared rapidly down the drive and Roger was left to continue his walk alone. But he had no intention of being bored. There was, he felt, quite a lot of thinking that he would rather like to do; and the chance of a few minutes’ solitude was not unwelcome. He paced slowly back to the lawn again, his pipe in full blast, and reeking clouds trailing lazily behind him.

But Roger was not to do his thinking just yet. Scarcely had he reached the lawn when Alec appeared from the direction of the stables, somewhat hot and flushed. He fell into step with Roger and began to explain why he had been so long.

“Couldn’t get away from the wretched fellow!” he exclaimed. “Had to tell him the whole thing from beginning to—— Hullo! What’s up?”

Roger had halted and was staring in through the library windows. “I’ll swear I left that door shut,” he said in puzzled tones. “Somebody’s opened it. Come on!”

“Where are you going?” Alec asked in surprise.

“To see who’s in the library,” returned Roger, already halfway across the lawn. He quickened his pace to a run and hurried in through the French windows, Alec close on his heels.

A woman who was bending over something on the farther side of the room straightened hastily at their approach. It was Mrs. Plant, and the object over which she had been bending was a large safe that stood by the wall close to the little typewriting table. Roger had just had time to see that she was feverishly twisting the knob before she had sprung up on hearing their footsteps.

She faced them with heaving bosom and horrified eyes, one hand clutching the folds of her frock, the other clenched at her side. It was obvious that she was frightened almost out of her wits.

“Were you looking for anything?” Roger asked politely, and cursed himself for the banality of the words even as he spoke them.

With a tremendous effort Mrs. Plant appeared to pull herself together.

“My jewels,” she muttered jerkily. “I asked—Mr. Stanworth to—to lock them in his safe the other day. I—I was wondering—would the police take them? I thought it might be better if I——”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Plant,” said Roger soothingly, breaking in upon her painful utterances. “The police wouldn’t take them in any case, I expect; and you can easily identify what is yours. They’ll be safe enough, I assure you.”

A little colour was coming slowly back into her cheeks and her breathing was becoming less rapid.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Sheringham,” she said more easily. “It was absurd of me, no doubt, but they’re rather valuable, and I had a sudden panic about them. Of course I ought not to have tried to take them myself. I can’t think what I can have been doing!” She laughed nervously. “Really, I’m positively ashamed of myself. You won’t give me away for being so foolish, will you?”

There was a note of urgent appeal in the last sentence that belied the lightness of the words.

Roger smiled reassuringly. “Of course not,” he said promptly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I know I can rely on you. And on Mr. Grierson, too. Well, I suppose I’d better run away before anyone else catches me here.”

She made her way out of the room, carefully averting her eyes from the chair by the writing table.

Roger turned to Alec and whistled softly.

“Now what did she want to lie like that for?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Do you think she was lying?” Alec asked in puzzled tones. “I should have said that Mrs. Plant was as straight as they make ’em.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders in mock despair. “And so should I! That’s what makes it all the more extraordinary. Yet of course she was lying. Like a trooper! And so ridiculously! Her story’s bound to be disproved as soon as the safe is opened. She must have said the first thing that came into her head. Alec, my son, there’s something damned queer going on here! Mrs. Plant isn’t the only one who’s lying. Come out into the garden and listen to the duplicity of Jefferson.”

CHAPTER IV.
Major Jefferson is Reluctant

Inspector Mansfield, of the Elchester police, was a methodical person. He knew exactly what he had to do, and just how to do it. And he had precisely as much imagination as was required for his job, and not a fraction more. Too much imagination can be a very severe handicap to a conscientious policeman, in spite of what the detective stories may say.

As the inspector entered the library with Jefferson from the hall, Roger, who had heard his arrival and was determined to miss no more of this interesting situation than he could possibly help, contrived to present himself at the French windows, the faithful Alec still in tow.

“Good-morning, Inspector,” he said cheerfully.

Jefferson frowned slightly; perhaps he was remembering his last words to Roger. “These are Mr. Sheringham and Mr. Grierson, Inspector,” he said a little brusquely. “They were present when we broke the door in.”

The inspector nodded. “Good-morning, gentlemen. Sad business, this. Very.” He glanced rapidly round the room. “Ah, there’s the body. Excuse me, Major.”

He stepped quickly across and bent over the figure in the chair, examining it attentively. Then he dropped on his knees and scrutinised the hand that held the revolver.

“Mustn’t touch anything till the doctor’s seen him,” he explained briefly, rising to his feet again and dusting the knees of his trousers. “May I have a look at that document you spoke of, sir?”

“Certainly, Inspector. It’s on the table.”

Jefferson showed where the paper was lying, and the inspector picked it up. Roger edged farther into the room. The presence of himself and Alec had not been challenged, and he wished to establish his right to be there. Furthermore, he was uncommonly curious to hear the inspector’s views on the somewhat remarkable document he was now studying.

The inspector looked up. “H’m!” he observed noncommittally, laying the paper on the table again. “To the point, at any rate. Was Mr. Stanworth in the habit of using a typewriter instead of pen and ink?”

“Just the point I mentioned, Inspector,” Roger broke in.

“Indeed, sir?” said the inspector politely. He turned to Jefferson. “Do you happen to know, Major Jefferson?”

“Yes, I think he was,” Jefferson said thoughtfully. “He certainly always wrote his letters on it. I fancy he used it a good deal.”

“But to sit down and type a thing like that!” Roger exclaimed. “It seems so unnecessary somehow.”

“And what do you make of it then, Mr. Sheringham?” the inspector asked with tolerant interest.

“I should say it showed a cold-blooded deliberation that proves Mr. Stanworth to have been a very exceptional man,” Roger replied quickly.

The inspector smiled faintly. “I see you’re more used to considering characters than actions,” he said. “Now I should have said that a more ordinary explanation might be that Mr. Stanworth, having already something else to type on the machine, slipped in a piece of paper and did that at the same time.”

“Oh!” Roger remarked, somewhat nonplussed. “Yes, I never thought of that.”

“It’s extraordinary what simple things one doesn’t think of at times,” said the inspector wisely.

“But in that case,” Roger observed thoughtfully, “wouldn’t you expect to find the other thing he had been typing? It can hardly have left the room, can it?”

“That’s impossible to say,” said the inspector, with the air of one closing the subject. “We don’t in the least know what Mr. Stanworth did last night. He might have gone out and posted a letter or two before he shot himself; and unless anyone happened to see him we could never know whether he did or not. Now I take it, sir,” he added, turning to Major Jefferson, “that Mr. Stanworth was a rather brusque, decisive sort of man?”

Jefferson considered. “Decisive, certainly. But I don’t know whether you would call him brusque exactly. Why?”

“The wording of this statement. It’s a bit—well, out of the ordinary, isn’t it?”

“It’s quite typical,” said Jefferson shortly.

“It is? That’s what I’m getting at. Now have you any idea at all as to the reasons he hints at?”

“Not in the least. I’m absolutely in the dark.”

“Ah! Well, perhaps Lady Stanworth will be able to throw some light on that point later.” He strolled over to the door and began to examine the lock.

Roger drew Alec aside. “You know, this is jolly interesting, this business,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen the police at work before. But the story books are all wrong. This man isn’t a fool by any means; very far from it. He caught me out properly over that typing; and twice at that. Perfectly obvious points when they’re mentioned, of course; and I can’t think why they didn’t occur to me. That’s the trouble with an idée fixe; you can’t see beyond it, or even round it. Hullo; he’s trying the windows now.”

The inspector had crossed the room and was testing the fastenings of the French windows. “You said all these were fastened when you got in as well as the door, sir?” he remarked to Jefferson.

“Yes. But Mr. Sheringham can answer for that better than I. He opened them.”

The inspector flashed a quick glance at Roger. “And they were all securely fastened?”

“Absolutely,” said Roger with conviction. “I remember commenting on it at the time.”

“Why did you open them, sir?”

“To let some air into the place. It smelt of death, if you know what I mean.”

The inspector nodded as if the explanation satisfied him, and at the same moment the front door bell rang.

“I expect that’s the doctor,” Jefferson remarked, moving towards the door. “I’ll go and see.”

“That man’s badly on the jump,” Roger commented to himself. Aloud he took the opportunity of remarking, “I dare say you’ll find some private papers in that safe which may throw some light on the business.” Roger badly wanted to know what was inside that safe. And what wasn’t!

“Safe, sir?” said the inspector sharply. “What safe?”

Roger pointed out where the safe stood. “I understand that Mr. Stanworth always carried it about with him,” he remarked casually. “That seems to point to the fact of there being something helpful inside, I should say.”

The inspector glanced round. “You never know with these suicides, sir,” he said in confidential tones. “Sometimes the reason’s plain enough; but often there doesn’t seem any reason for it at all. Either they’ve kept it to themselves, or else they’ve gone suddenly dotty. ‘Temporary Insanity’ is more often true than you’d say. Melancholia and such-like. The doctor may be able to help us there.”

“And here he comes, if I’m not very much mistaken,” Roger observed, as the sound of approaching voices reached their ears.

The next moment Jefferson reappeared, showing a tall, thin man with a small bag in his hand into the room.

“This is Doctor Matthewson,” he said.

The doctor and the inspector exchanged nods of acquaintance. “There’s the body, Doctor,” remarked the latter, waving his hand towards the chair. “Nothing very remarkable about the case; but of course you know the coroner will want a detailed report.”

Dr. Matthewson nodded again and, setting his bag upon the table, bent over the still figure in the chair and proceeded to make his examination.

It did not take him many minutes.

“Been dead about eight hours,” he remarked briefly to the inspector, as he straightened up again. “Let’s see. It’s just past ten now, isn’t it? I should say he died at somewhere round two o’clock this morning. The revolver must have been within a couple of inches of his forehead when he fired. The bullet may be——” He felt carefully at the back of the dead man’s head, and, whipping a lancet out of his pocket, made an incision in the skull. “Here it is,” he added, extracting a small object of shining metal from the skin. “Lodged just under the scalp.”

The inspector made a few brief notes in his pocketbook.

“Obviously self-inflicted, of course?” he observed.

The doctor raised the dangling hand and scrutinised the fingers that held the revolver. “Obviously. The grip is properly adjusted and must have been applied during life.” With an effort he loosened the clasp of the dead fingers and handed the weapon across the table to the inspector.

The latter twirled the chamber thoughtfully before opening it. “Not fully loaded, but only one chamber fired,” he announced, and made another note.

“Edges of wound blackened and traces of powder on surrounding skin,” supplied the doctor.

The inspector extracted the empty shell and fitted the bullet carefully into it, comparing the latter with the bullets of the unfired cartridges.

“Why do you do that?” Roger asked with interest. “You know the bullet must have been fired from that revolver.”

“It’s not my job to know anything, sir,” returned the inspector, a little huffily. “My job is to collect evidence.”

“Oh, I wasn’t meaning that you weren’t acting perfectly correctly,” Roger said hastily. “But I’ve never seen anything of this sort before, and I was wondering why you were taking such pains to collect evidence when the cause of death is so obvious.”

“Well, sir, it isn’t my business to determine the cause of death,” the inspector explained, unbending slightly before the other’s obvious interest. “That’s the coroner’s job. All I have to do is to assemble all the available evidence that I can find, however trivial it may seem. Then I lay it before him, and he directs the jury accordingly. That is the correct procedure.”

Roger retired into the background. “I said there weren’t any flies on this bird,” he muttered to Alec, who had been a silent but none the less interested spectator of the proceedings. “That’s the third time he’s wiped the floor with me.”

“By the way, sir,” the inspector was saying to Doctor Matthewson, “I take it that as Lady Stanworth sent for you, you have been called in here before since they arrived?”

“That’s right, Inspector,” nodded the doctor. “Mr. Stanworth called me in himself. He had a slight attack of hay fever.”

“Ah!” remarked the inspector with interest. “And I suppose you examined him more or less.”

The doctor smiled faintly. He was remembering a somewhat strenuous half hour he had spent with his patient in this very room. “As a matter of fact, I examined him very thoroughly indeed. At his own request, of course. He said that it was the first time he had seen a doctor for fifteen years, and he’d like to be properly overhauled while he was about it.”

“And how did you find him?” the inspector asked with interest. “Anything much wrong with him? Heart, or anything like that?”

“See what he’s getting at?” Roger whispered to Alec. “Wants to find out if he was suffering from any incurable disease that might have led to suicide.”

“There was nothing wrong with him at all,” the doctor said with finality. “He was as sound as the proverbial bell. In fact, for a man of his years he was in a really remarkably healthy condition.”

“Oh!” The inspector was clearly a little disappointed. “Well, what about this safe, then?”

“The safe?” Major Jefferson repeated in startled tones.

“Yes, sir; I think I should like to have a look at the contents, if you please. They may throw some light on the affair.”

“But—but——” Major Jefferson hesitated, and it seemed to the interested Roger that his usually impassive face showed traces of real alarm. “But is that necessary?” he asked more calmly. “There may be private papers in there of a highly confidential nature. Not that I know anything about it,” he added somewhat hastily; “but Mr. Stanworth was always exceedingly reticent about the contents.”

“All the more reason for us to have a look at them, sir,” returned the inspector dryly. “As for anything confidential, that will of course go no farther. That is, unless there is some excellent reason to the contrary,” he added darkly.

Still Jefferson hesitated. “Of course, if you insist,” he said slowly, “there is no more to be said. Still, it seems highly unnecessary to me, I must say.”

“That, sir, is a matter for me to decide,” replied the inspector shortly. “Now, can you tell me where the key would be and what the combination is?”

“I believe that Mr. Stanworth usually kept his key-ring in his right-hand waistcoat pocket,” Jefferson said tonelessly, as if the subject had ceased to interest him. “As for the combination, I have not the least idea what it was. I was not in Mr. Stanworth’s confidence to that extent,” he added with the least possible shade of bitterness in his voice.

The inspector was feeling in the pocket mentioned. “Well, they’re not here now,” he said. With quick, deft movements he searched the other pockets. “Ah! Here they are. In the one above. He must have slipped them into the wrong pocket by mistake. But you say you don’t know the combination? Now I wonder how we can find that.” He weighed the ring of keys thoughtfully in his hand, deliberating.

Roger had strolled round the room with a careless air. If that safe was going to be opened, he wanted a good look at the contents. Now he paused by the fireplace.

“Hullo!” he remarked suddenly. “Somebody’s been burning something here.” He bent and peered into the grate. “Paper! I shouldn’t be surprised if those ashes aren’t all that’s left of your evidence, Inspector.”

The inspector crossed the room hastily and joined him. “I daresay you’re right, Mr. Sheringham,” he said disappointedly. “I ought to have noticed that myself. Thank you. Still, we must get that safe opened as soon as possible in any case.”

Roger rejoined Alec. “One to me,” he smiled. “Now, if he’d been one of the story-book inspectors, he’d have bitten my head off for discovering something that he’d missed. I like this man.”

The inspector put his notebook away. “Well, Doctor,” he said briskly, “I don’t think there’s anything more that you or I can do here, is there?”

“There’s nothing more that I can do,” Doctor Matthewson replied. “I’d like to get away, too, if you can spare me. I’m rather busy to-day. I’ll let you have that report at once.”

“Thanks. No, I shan’t want you any more, sir. I’ll let you know when the inquest will be. Probably to-morrow.” He turned to Jefferson. “And now, sir, if you’ll let me use the telephone, I’ll ring up the coroner and notify him. And after that, if there’s another room convenient, I’d like to interview these gentlemen and yourself, and the other members of the household also. We may be able to get a little closer to those reasons that Mr. Stanworth mentions.” He folded up the document in question and tucked it carefully away in his pocket.

“Then you won’t be wanting this room any more?” asked Jefferson.

“Not for the present. But I’ll send in the constable I brought with me to take charge in the meantime.”

“Oh!”

Roger looked curiously at the last speaker. Then he turned to Alec.

“Now am I getting a bee in my bonnet,” he said in a low voice, as they followed the others out of the room, “or did Jefferson sound disappointed to you just then?”

“Heaven only knows,” Alec whispered back. “I can’t make out any of them, and you’re as bad as anybody else!”

“Wait till I get you alone. I’m going to talk my head off,” Roger promised.

The inspector was giving his instructions to a large burly countryman, disguised as a policeman, who had been waiting patiently in the hall all this time. While Jefferson led the way to the morning room, the latter ambled portentously into the library. It was the first time he had been placed in charge, however temporary, of a case of this importance, and he respected himself tremendously for it.

Arrived on the scene of the tragedy, he frowned heavily about him, gazed severely at the body for a moment and then very solemnly smelled at the ink-pot. He had once read a lurid story in which what had been thought at first to be a case of suicide had turned out eventually to be a murder carried out by means of a poisoned ink-pot; and he was taking no chances.

CHAPTER V.
Mr. Sheringham Asks a Question

“Now, gentlemen,” said the inspector, when the four of them were seated in the morning room, “there is a certain amount of routine work for me to do, though it may strike you as unimportant.” He smiled slightly towards Roger.

“Not a bit,” said that gentleman quickly. “I’m extraordinarily interested in all this. You’ve no idea how useful it will be if I ever want to write a detective novel.”

“Well, the chief thing I want to know,” the inspector resumed, “is who was the last person to see the deceased alive. Now when did you see him last, Major Jefferson?”

“About an hour and a half after dinner. Say ten o’clock. He was smoking in the garden with Mr. Sheringham, and I wanted to ask him something about the arrangements for to-day.”

“That’s right,” Roger nodded. “I remember. It was a few minutes past ten. The church clock in the village had just struck.”

“And what did you want to ask him?”

“Oh, nothing very important. Only what time he wanted the car in the morning, if at all. But I usually made a point of seeing him about that time every evening, in case he had any instructions to give me for the following day.”

“I see. And what did he tell you?”

“That he wouldn’t be wanting the car this morning at all.”

“And did he seem quite normal? Not agitated or upset in any way? Perfectly ordinary?”

“Perfectly.”

“And had been all day? At dinner, for instance?”

“Certainly. He was in a very good temper at dinner, as a matter of fact.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the inspector quickly. “Wasn’t he usually in a good temper?”

“Oh, yes. Usually. But like most strong-minded, self-willed men he could be thoroughly unpleasant if he chose.”

“Now in the course of your duties as his secretary, has it come to your notice whether he has had any bad news lately? Either financial or otherwise?”

“No.”

“Would you have known if he had?”

“I doubt it. If it had been financial, he might have told me, as I frequently had to write letters for him regarding his investments and so forth. But otherwise I am quite sure he would not. Mr. Stanworth was very reticent indeed about his personal affairs.”

“I see. He was comfortably off, wasn’t he?”

“Very. You might call it more than that.”

“Rich, in fact. And how were his investments laid out? Did he, for instance, put most of his money into one concern?”

“You mean, was he in a position to be ruined by the failure of any single business? No, I’m sure he wasn’t. His money was spread over a large number of investments; and to my certain knowledge he still has a very large sum indeed in Government stock.”

“Then we can take it as fairly sure that, whatever caused him to take his life, it was nothing to do with money matters?”

“Yes, I’m quite convinced of that.”

“Then we must look elsewhere. Now, had Mr. Stanworth any relations besides his sister-in-law?”

“Not to my knowledge, and I’ve been with him six years. He had a younger brother, of course, Lady Stanworth’s husband; but I’ve never heard of any others.”

“I see. Well, Major Jefferson, am I to take it that you can’t throw any light at all on the reasons for Mr. Stanworth’s suicide? Think carefully, if you please. Suicide is a pretty serious step, and the reasons must be correspondingly serious. The coroner is bound to do his best to bring them to light.”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Jefferson quietly. “It is the last thing in the world I should have expected from Mr. Stanworth.”

The inspector turned to Roger. “Now, sir, you were in the garden with him last evening at ten. What happened after that?”

“Oh, we didn’t stay out very long after that. Not more than twenty minutes, I should say. I had some work to do, and we went in together.”

“What were you talking about in the garden?”

“Roses chiefly. He was very keen on roses and took a lot of interest in the rose garden here.”

“Did he seem cheerful?”

“Very. He always struck me as an exceptionally cheerful person. Genial, in fact.”

“Did anything he said lead you to think that he might be contemplating taking his life? Not at the time, of course; but looking back on it. No casual remark, or anything like that?”

“Good heavens, no! On the contrary, he talked quite a lot about the future. What part of the country he was going to stay in next year, and that sort of thing.”

“I see. Well, what happened when you went in?”

“We met Mrs. Plant in the hall, and he stopped to speak to her. I went on to the drawing room to get a book I’d left there. When I came back they were still in the hall talking. I said good-night to both of them and went on up to my room. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Thank you. Then you can’t help, either?”

“Not in the least, I’m afraid. The whole thing beats me completely.”

The inspector looked at Alec. “And you, sir? When did you see him last?”

Alec considered. “I hardly saw him after dinner at all, Inspector. That is, I didn’t speak to him; but I caught a glimpse of him once or twice in the garden with Mr. Sheringham.”

“You were in the garden, too?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

Alec blushed. “Well, I was——That is——”

Roger came to his rescue. “Mr. Grierson and Miss Shannon, whom you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, became engaged yesterday, Inspector,” he said gravely, but with a side-long wink.

The inspector smiled genially. “Then I don’t think we need enquire what Mr. Grierson was doing in the garden last night,” he remarked jovially. “Or Miss Shannon, for that matter, when I come to question her later. And you can’t help us either in any other direction?”

“I’m afraid not, Inspector. I really knew very little of Mr. Stanworth in any case. I only met him for the first time when I arrived here three days ago.”

Inspector Mansfield rose to his feet. “Well, I think that is all I have to ask you, gentlemen. After all, even if we can’t find out what his reasons were, the case is clear enough. The door and all the windows locked on the inside; the revolver in his hand, which the doctor says must have been there during life; to say nothing of his own statement. I don’t think the coroner will take very long to arrive at his verdict.”

“What about the inquest?” Roger asked. “Shall we be wanted?”

“You and Mr. Grierson will be, and the other person who was present when the door was broken in—the butler, wasn’t it? And of course yourself, Major, and Lady Stanworth; and the last person to see him alive. Who else is there in the party? Mrs. and Miss Shannon and Mrs. Plant? Well, I don’t think they will be required, unless they have any further information of importance. Still, the coroner will notify whom he wants to attend.”

“And the inquest will be to-morrow?” Major Jefferson asked.

“Probably. In a case as simple as this there is no point in delay. And now, Major, I wonder if I might have a word with Lady Stanworth down here. And I wish you’d look round and see if you can hit on the code for that safe. I could get it from the makers, of course, if necessary; but I don’t want to have to do that unless I must.”

Major Jefferson nodded. “I’ll try,” he said briefly. “And I’ll send one of the maids to tell Lady Stanworth. She’s in her room.”

He rang the bell, and Roger and Alec strolled over to the door.

“And you might warn the others in the household not to leave the premises till I have seen them,” they heard the inspector say as they passed through it. “I shall have to interrogate everyone, of course.”

Roger drew Alec into the dining room and thence out into the garden. They reached the middle of the lawn before he spoke.

“Alec,” he said seriously, “what do you make of it all?”

“Make of what?” asked Alec.

“Make of what?” Roger repeated scornfully. “Why, the whole blessed business, of course. Alec, you’re uncommonly slow in the up-take. Can’t you see that Jefferson is hiding something for all he’s worth?”

“He did seem a bit reticent, certainly,” Alec agreed cautiously.

“Reticent? Why, if that fellow’s telling one tenth of what he knows I should be surprised. And what about Mrs. Plant? And why doesn’t anybody know the combination of that safe? I tell you, there are wheels within wheels going on here.”

Alec threw caution to the winds. “It is curious,” he admitted recklessly.

Roger was intent on his own thoughts. “And why was Jefferson searching Mr. Stanworth’s pockets?” he demanded suddenly. “Oh, but of course, that’s obvious enough.”

“I’m dashed if it is. Why was he?”

“To find the keys of the safe, I suppose. What else could it be? For some reason or other Jefferson is all against having that safe opened. By the police, at any rate. And so is Mrs. Plant. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Alec helplessly.

“Nor do I! That’s just the annoying part. I hate things I don’t understand. Always have done. It’s a sort of challenge to get to the bottom of them.”

“Are you going to get to the bottom of this?” Alec smiled.

“If there’s a bottom to get to,” said Roger defiantly. “So don’t grin in that infernally sarcastic way. Dash it all, aren’t you curious?”

Alec hesitated. “Yes, I am in a way. But after all, it doesn’t seem to be our business, does it?”

“That remains to be seen. What I want to find out is—whose business is it? At present it seems to be everybody’s.”

“And are you going to tell the police anything?”

“No; I’m hanged if I am,” said Roger with conviction. “I don’t mind whose business it is; but it isn’t theirs. Not yet, anyway,” he added with a touch of grimness.

Alec was plainly startled. “Good Lord! You don’t think it might be eventually, do you?”

“I’m blessed if I know what to think! By the way, reverting to Jefferson, you remember when I found those ashes in the hearth and suggested that they might be the remains of those mysterious private documents Jefferson had been hinting about? Well, did it appear to you that he looked uncommonly relieved for the moment?”

Alec reflected. “I don’t think I was looking at him just then.”

“Well, I was. And I made the suggestion on purpose, to see how he’d take it. I’d take my oath that the idea appealed to him immensely. Now why? And what’s he got to do with Mr. Stanworth’s private papers?”

“But look here, you know,” said Alec slowly, “if he really was hiding something, as you seem to think, surely he wouldn’t go and give the whole show away by telling us straight out like that what sort of thing it is that he’s hiding? I mean, if he really is hiding something he’d mention papers to put us off the scent, wouldn’t he? Really, I mean, it would be something quite different. What I mean is——”

“It’s all right. I’m beginning to get an idea of what you mean,” said Roger kindly. “But seriously, Alec, that’s rather an idea of yours. After all, Jefferson isn’t the man to give himself away, is he?”

“No,” said Alec earnestly. “You see, what I mean is——”

“Hullo!” Roger interrupted rudely. “There’s the inspector going down the drive. And without Jefferson, by all that’s lucky! Let’s cut after him and ask him if he’s brought anything else to the surface.” And without waiting for a reply he set off at a run in the wake of the retreating inspector.

The latter, hearing their footsteps on the gravel, turned round to wait for them.

“Well, sir?” he said with a smile. “Remembered something else to tell me?”

Roger dropped into a walk. “No; but I was wondering whether you had anything to tell me. Found anything more out?”

“You’re not connected with the press by any chance, Mr. Sheringham, are you?” the inspector asked suspiciously.

“Oh, no; it’s just natural curiosity,” Roger laughed. “Not for publication, and all that.”

“I was thinking you might get me into trouble if it came out that I’d been talking more than I ought to, sir. But I haven’t found anything more out in any case.”

“Lady Stanworth wasn’t any help?”

“Not a bit, sir. She couldn’t throw any light on it at all. I didn’t keep her long. Or any of the others, either, for that matter. There was nothing more to be got out of them, and I’ve got to get back and make out my report.”

“Not even found the safe’s combination?”

“No,” returned the inspector disappointedly. “I shall have to ring up the makers and get that. I’ve taken a note of the number.”

“And who saw him last?”

“Mrs. Plant. He stopped her in the hall to ask her if she liked some roses he’d had specially sent up to her room for her, and left her to go into the library. Nobody saw him after that.”

“And is the body still in there?”

“No, sir. We shan’t want that any more. The constable I brought with me, Rudgeman, is helping them take it upstairs now.”

The lodge gates appeared in sight, and Roger halted.

“Well, good-bye, Inspector. Shall we see you over here again?”

“Yes, sir. I shall have to come over about that safe. I don’t suppose we’ll find anything in it, and it’s a ten-mile bicycle ride for me in this heat; but there you are!” He laughed ruefully and went on his way.

Roger and Alec turned and began to pace slowly back to the house.

“So Mrs. Plant was the last to see him alive, was she?” observed the former thoughtfully. “That means she’ll be staying over for the inquest. The others will be going this afternoon, I suppose. What’s the time?”

Alec glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Just past eleven.”

“And all that’s happened in two hours! My hat! Well, come along with me. If the body’s been removed, we may find the coast clear with any luck.”

“What are you proposing to do now?” Alec asked with interest.

“Look around that library.”

“Oh? What’s the idea?”

For once in his life a curious reluctance seemed to have settled upon Roger. Almost nervously he cleared his throat, and when at last he did speak his voice was unwontedly grave.

“Well,” he said slowly, picking his words with care; “there’s a thing that nobody else seems to have noticed, but it’s been striking me more and more forcibly every minute. I tell you candidly it’s something rather horrible—a question that I’m honestly rather frightened of finding the answer to.”

“What are you driving at?” asked Alec in perplexity.

Roger hesitated again.

“Look here,” he said suddenly, “if you were going to shoot yourself, how would you go about it? Wouldn’t you do it like this?”

He raised his hand and pointed an imaginary revolver at a spot just above the right-hand end of his right eyebrow.

Alec copied his action. “Well, yes, I might. It seems the natural way to do it.”

“Exactly,” said Roger slowly. “Then why the devil is that wound in the centre of Stanworth’s forehead?”

CHAPTER VI.
Four People Behave Remarkably

Alec started, and his broad, good-humoured face paled a little.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated in startled tones. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Simply what I say,” returned Roger. “Why did Stanworth go out of his way to shoot himself in such a remarkably difficult manner? Don’t you see what I mean? It isn’t natural.”

Alec was staring up the drive. “Isn’t it? But he did it all right, didn’t he?”

“Oh, of course he did it,” said Roger in a voice that was curiously lacking in conviction. “But what I can’t understand is this. Why, when he could have done it so easily, did he go about it in such a roundabout way? I mean, a revolver isn’t such an easy thing to manipulate unhandily; and the attitude he used must have twisted his wrist most uncomfortably. Just try pointing your forefinger in a straight line at the middle of your forehead, and you’ll see what I mean.”

He suited his action to his words, and there was no doubt about the constraint of his attitude. Alec looked at him attentively.

“Yes, it does look awkward,” he commented.

“It is. Infernally awkward. And you saw where the doctor took the bullet from. Almost at the very back. That means the revolver must have been nearly in a dead straight line. You try and see how difficult it is. It almost dislocates your elbow.”

Alec copied the action. “You’re quite right,” he said with interest. “It is uncomfortable.”

“I should call it more than that. It’s so unnatural as to be highly improbable. Yet there’s the fact.”

“Can’t get away from facts, you know,” observed Alec sagely.

“No, but you can explain them. And I’m dashed if I can see the explanation for this one.”

“Well, what’s the idea?” Alec asked curiously. “You’re being infernally mysterious.”

“Me? I like that. It isn’t I who am being mysterious. It’s everything else. Facts and people and everything. Look here, we won’t go in for a moment. Let’s find a seat somewhere and try and get a grip on things. I’m getting out of my depth, and I don’t like it.”

He led the way to where a few garden chairs were scattered beneath a big cedar at one of the corners of the lawn, and threw himself into one of them. Alec followed suit, somewhat more cautiously. Alec was a big person, and he had met garden chairs before.

“Proceed,” he said, fishing for his pipe. “You interest me strangely.”

Nothing loth, Roger took up his tale.

“Well, then, in the first place let’s consider the human side of things. Hasn’t it struck you that there are four separate and distinct people here whose conduct during the last few hours has been, to say the least of it, remarkable?”

“No,” said Alec candidly, “it hasn’t. Two have, I know. Who are the other two?”

“Well, the butler is one. He didn’t seem particularly cut up over Stanworth’s death, did he? Not that you look for a tremendous display of emotion from a great hulking brute like that, true. But you do look for some.”

“He wasn’t vastly upset,” Alec admitted.

“And then there is his position in the household. Why should an ex-prize-fighter turn butler? The two professions don’t seem to harmonise somehow. And why should Stanworth want to employ an ex-prize-fighting butler for that matter? It’s not what you’d expect from him. He always seemed to me particularly meticulous over points of etiquette. I wouldn’t have called him a snob exactly; he was too nice and jolly for that. But he did like to be taken for a gentleman. And gentlemen don’t employ prize-fighting butlers, do they?”

“I’ve never heard of it being done before,” Alec conceded cautiously.

“Precisely. My point exactly. Alec, you’re positively sparkling this morning.”

“Thanks,” Alec growled, lighting his pipe. “But apparently not enough so to make out who the fourth of your suspicious people is. Get on with it.”

“After you with that match. Why, didn’t it strike you that somebody else took the news of Stanworth’s death with remarkable fortitude? And that after it had been broken to her with a bluntness that verged on brutality.”

Alec paused in the act of applying a second match to his refractory pipe. “By Jove! You mean Lady Stanworth?”

“I do,” said Roger complacently.

“Yes, I did notice that,” Alec remarked, staring over his pipe at his companion. “But I don’t think there was much love lost between those two, was there?”

“You’re right. There wasn’t. I shouldn’t mind going farther than that and saying that she absolutely hated old Stanworth. I noticed it lots of times these last three days, and it puzzled me even then. Now——” He paused and sucked at his pipe once or twice. “Now it puzzles me a good deal more,” he concluded softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

“Go on,” Alec prompted interestedly.

“Well, that’s four people; two whose behaviour has not been quite what you’d expect under the circumstances, and two who are downright suspicious. Anyhow, you can say four curious people.”

Alec nodded in silence. He was thinking of a fifth person whose conduct early that morning had been something more than curious. With an effort he thrust the thought from him abruptly. At any rate, Roger was going to know nothing about that.

“And now we come to facts, and the Lord knows these are curious enough, too. First of all, we’ve got the place of the wound and the extreme unlikelihood (as one would have said if one hadn’t actually seen it) of anyone committing suicide by shooting himself in that particular way. About that I’m not going to say any more for the moment. But there are plenty of things to talk about without that.”

“There would be, with you anywhere about,” Alec murmured irreverently.

“You wait. This is serious. Now according to what they say, people went to bed in pretty decent time, last night, didn’t they? Mrs. Plant after meeting Stanworth in the hall; Barbara and her mother soon after you came in from the garden; and Jefferson and you after you’d finished playing billiards?”

“That’s right,” Alec nodded. “Eleven thirtyish.”

“Well,” said Roger triumphantly. “Somebody’s lying! I was working in my room till past one, and I heard footsteps in the corridor not once but two or three times between midnight and then—the last time just as I was knocking off! Of course I didn’t pay any particular attention to them at the time; but I know I’m not mistaken. So if everyone says that they were in their rooms by eleven-thirty (except Stanworth, who was presumably locked in the library), then I repeat—somebody’s lying! Now what do you make of that?”

“Heaven only knows,” said Alec helplessly, puffing vigorously at his pipe. “What do you?”

“Beyond the bare fact that somebody’s lying, nothing—yet! But that’s quite enough for the present. Then there’s another thing. You remember where those keys were? In the waistcoat pocket above the one in which he usually kept them. The inspector just remarked that he must have put them in the wrong pocket. Now, do you think that’s likely?”

“Might be done. I don’t see anything wildly improbable in it.”

“Oh, no; not wildly improbable. But improbable enough, for all that. Have you ever done it, for instance?”

“Put a thing in the wrong pocket? Lord, yes; heaps of times.”

“No, you idiot. Not just in any wrong pocket. In the upper pocket of a waistcoat instead of the lower.”

Alec considered. “I don’t know. Haven’t I!”

“Probably not. Once again, it’s an unnatural mistake. One doesn’t use the upper pockets of a waistcoat much. They’re not easy to get at. But consider this. When you want to slip a thing into the lower pocket of a waistcoat that’s hanging on a chair, it’s the easiest thing in the world to put it in the upper pocket by mistake. Done it myself hundreds of times.”

Alec whistled softly. “I see what you’re getting at. You mean——”

“Absolutely! A waistcoat worn by somebody else is in the same category as a waistcoat hanging on a chair. If we’re to go by probabilities, then the most likely thing is that somebody else put those keys in that pocket. Not Stanworth himself at all.”

“But who on earth do you imagine did it? Jefferson?”

“Jefferson!” Roger repeated scornfully. “Of course not Jefferson! That’s the whole point. Jefferson was looking for those keys; and it’s just because they were in the wrong pocket and he didn’t know it, that he couldn’t find them. That’s plain enough.”

“Sorry!” Alec apologised.

“Well, this is all wrong, don’t you see? It complicates things still more. Here’s a fifth mysterious person to be added to our list of suspicious characters.”

“Then you don’t think it was Mrs. Plant?” Alec said tentatively.

“I know it wasn’t Mrs. Plant. She was playing about with the knob of the safe; she hadn’t got the keys. And in any case, even if she had, there was no possibility of her getting them back again. No, we’ve got to look elsewhere. Now let’s see, when was that library left empty?” He paused for reflection. “Jefferson was there alone while I was in the dining room (I should like to know why Mrs. Plant fainted, by the way; but we’ve got to wait for that till the safe’s opened); but he didn’t find the keys. Then we both went into the garden. Then I met you, and we caught Mrs. Plant almost immediately afterwards. How long was I with Jefferson? Not more than ten minutes or so. Then the keys must have been disturbed in that ten minutes before Mrs. Plant went into the library (there was no opportunity later; you remember we kept the library under inspection after that till the police arrived). Either then, or——” He hesitated and was silent.

“Yes?” said Alec curiously. “Or when else?”

“Nothing!—Well, anyhow, there’s plenty of food for thought there, isn’t there?”

“It does give one something to think about,” Alec agreed, puffing vigorously.

“Oh, and one other thing; possibly of no importance whatever. There was a slight scratch on Stanworth’s right wrist.”

“Rose bush!” replied Alec promptly. “He was always playing about with them, wasn’t he?”

“Ye-es,” Roger replied doubtfully. “That occurred to me, of course. But somehow I don’t think it was a scratch from a rose. It was fairly broad, for instance; not a thin, deep line like a rose’s scratch. However, that’s neither here nor there; probably it’s got nothing to do with anything. Well, that’s the lot. Now—what do you make of it all?”

“If you want my candid opinion,” said Alec carefully, after a little pause, “I think that you’re making mountains out of molehills. In other words, attaching too much importance to trifles. After all, when you come to think of it there’s nothing particularly serious in any of the things you mentioned, is there? And you can’t tell; there may be a perfectly innocent explanation even for Jefferson and Mrs. Plant.”

Roger smoked thoughtfully for a minute or two.

“There may be, of course,” he said at length; “in fact, I hope to goodness there is. But as for the rest, I agree with you that they’re only molehills in themselves; but don’t forget that if you pile sufficient molehills on top of each other you get a mountain. And that’s what I can’t help thinking is the case here. Separately these little facts are nothing; but collectively they make me wonder rather furiously.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he remarked pointedly.

“Possibly,” Roger laughed. “But I’m not a cat, and I thrive on it. Anyway, my mind’s made up on one point. I’m going to nose round and just see whether there isn’t any more to be found out. I liked old Stanworth, and as long as it seems to me that there’s the least possibility of his having been——” He checked himself abruptly. “Of all not being quite as it should,” he resumed after a momentary pause. “Well, I’m going to make it my business to look into it. Now, what I want to ask you is—will you help me?”

Alec regarded his friend silently for a minute or two, his hand cradling the bowl of the pipe he was smoking.

“Yes,” he announced at length; “on one condition. That whatever you may find out, you won’t take any important steps without telling me. You see, I don’t know that I consider this absolutely playing the game in a way; and I want——”

“You can make yourself easy on that score,” Roger smiled. “If we go into it, we go in together; and I won’t do anything, not only without telling you, but even without your consent. That’s only fair.”

“And you’ll let me know anything you may find out as you go along?” asked Alec suspiciously. “Not keep things up your sleeve, like Holmes did to old Watson?”

“Of course not, my dear chap! If it comes to that, I don’t suppose I could if I wanted to. I must have somebody to confide in.”

“You’ll make a rotten detective, Roger,” Alec grinned. “You gas too much. The best detectives are thin-lipped, hatchet-faced devils who creep about the place not saying a word to anybody.”

“In the story-books. You bet they don’t in real life. I expect they talk their heads off to their seconds-in-command. It’s so jolly helpful. Holmes must have missed an awful lot by not letting himself go to Watson. For one thing, the very act of talking helps one to clarify one’s own ideas and suggests further ones.”

“Your ideas ought to be pretty clear then,” said Alec rudely.

“And besides,” Roger went on unperturbed, “I’d bet anything that Watson was jolly useful to Holmes. Those absurd theories of the poor old chap’s that Holmes always ridiculed so mercilessly (I wish Watson had been allowed to hit on the truth just once; it would have pleased him so tremendously)—why, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t suggest the right idea to Holmes time and time again; but of course, he would never have acknowledged it. Anyhow, the moral is, you talk away for all you’re worth and I’ll do the same. And if we don’t manage to find something out between us, you can write me down an ass. And yourself, too, Alexander!”

CHAPTER VII.
The Vase That Wasn’t

“Very well, Sherlock,” said Alec. “And what’s the first move?”

“The library,” Roger replied promptly, and rose to his feet.

Alec followed suit and they turned towards the house.

“What do you expect to find?” asked the latter curiously.

“I’m blessed if I know,” Roger confessed. “In fact, I can’t really say that I actually expect to find anything. I’ve got hopes, of course, but in no definite direction.”

“Bit vague, isn’t it?”

“Thoroughly. That’s the interesting part. All we can do is to look around and try and notice anything at all, however slight, that seems to be just out of the ordinary. Ten to one it won’t mean anything at all; and even if it does, it’s another ten to one that we shan’t be able to see it. But as I said, there’s always hope.”

“But what are we going to look for? Things connected with the people you mentioned; or just—well, just things?”

“Anything! Anything and everything, and trust to luck. Now step quietly over this bit of gravel. We don’t want everyone to know that we’re nosing around in here.”

They stepped carefully over the path and entered the library. It was empty, but the door into the hall was slightly ajar. Roger crossed the room and closed it. Then he looked carefully round him.

“Where do we start operations?” Alec asked with interest.

“Well,” Roger said slowly, “I’m just trying to get a general sort of impression. This is really the first time we’ve been able to look round in peace, you know.”

“What sort of impression?”

Roger considered. “It’s rather hard to put into words exactly; but I’ve got a more or less retentive sort of mind. I mean, I can look at a thing or a place and carry the picture in my brain for quite a time. I’ve trained myself to it. It’s jolly useful for storing up ideas for descriptions of scenery and that sort of thing. Photographic, you might call it. Well, it struck me that if there had been any important alteration in this room during the last few hours—if the position of the safe had been altered, for instance, or anything like that—I should probably be able to spot it.”

“And you think that’s going to help now?”

“I don’t know in the least. But there’s no harm in trying, is there?”

He walked to the middle of the room and turned slowly about, letting the picture sink into his brain. When he had made the complete circuit, he sat on the edge of the table and shut his eyes.

Alec watched him interestedly. “Any luck?” he asked, after a couple of minutes’ silence.

Roger opened his eyes. “No,” he admitted, a little ruefully. It is always disappointing after such carefully staged preparations to find that one’s pet trick has failed to work. Roger felt not unlike a conjuror who had not succeeded in producing the rabbit from the top-hat.

“Ah!” observed Alec noncommittally.

“I can’t see anything different,” said Roger, almost apologetically.

“Ah!” Alec remarked again. “Then I suppose that means that nothing is different?” he suggested helpfully.

“I suppose so,” Roger admitted.

“Now are you going to tell me that this is really devilish significant?” Alec grinned. “Because if you do, I warn you that I shan’t believe you. It’s exactly what I expected. I told you you were making too much fuss about a lot of trifles.”

“Shut up!” Roger snapped from the edge of the table. “I’m thinking.”

“Oh, sorry!”

Roger took no notice of his fellow sleuth’s unprofessionally derisive grin. He was staring abstractedly at the big carved oak chimney-piece.

“There’s only one thing that strikes me,” he observed slowly after a little pause, “now I come to think of it. Doesn’t that chimney-piece look somehow a bit lopsided to you?”

Alec followed the other’s gaze. The chimney-piece looked ordinary enough. There were the usual pewter plates and mugs set out upon it, and on one side stood a large blue china vase. For a moment Alec stared at it in silence. Then:

“I’m blessed if I see anything lopsided about it,” he announced. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Roger replied, still gazing at it curiously. “All I can say is that in some way it doesn’t look quite right to me. Side-heavy, if I may coin a phrase.”

“You may,” said Alec kindly. “That is, if you’ll tell me what it means.”

“Well, unsymmetrical, if you like that better.” He slapped his knee suddenly. “By Jove! Idiot! I see now. Of course!” He turned a triumphant smile upon the other. “Fancy not noticing that before?”

“What?” shouted Alec in exasperation.

“Why, that vase. Don’t you see?”

Alec looked at the vase. It seemed a very ordinary sort of affair.

“What’s the matter with it? It looks all right to me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with it,” said Roger airily. “It is all right.”

Alec approached the table and clenched a large fist, which he proceeded to hold two inches in front of Roger’s nose.

“If you don’t tell me within thirty seconds what you’re talking about, I shall smite you,” he said grimly. “Hard!”

“I’ll tell you,” said Roger quickly. “I’m not allowed to be smitten before lunch. Doctor’s orders. He’s very strict about it, indeed. Oh, yes; about that vase. Well, don’t you see? There’s only one of it!”

“Is that all?” asked Alec, turning away disgustedly. “I thought from the fuss you were making that you’d discovered something really exciting.”

“So I have,” returned Roger, unabashed. “You see, the exciting part is that yesterday, I am prepared to swear, there were two of it.”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“Because now I come to realise it, I remember an impression of well-balanced orderliness about that chimney-piece. It was a typical man’s room chimney-piece. Women are the unsymmetrical sex, you know. The fact of there being only one vase alters its whole appearance.”

“Well?” Alec still did not appear to be very much impressed. “And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing. It’s just a fact that since yesterday afternoon the second vase has disappeared; that’s all. It may have been broken somehow by Stanworth himself; one of the servants may have knocked it over; Lady Stanworth may have taken it to put some flowers in—anything! But as it’s the only new fact that seems to emerge, let’s look into it.”

Roger left the table and strolled leisurely over to the fireplace.

“You’re wasting your time,” Alec growled, unconvinced. “What are you going to do? Ask the servants about it?”

“Not yet, at any rate,” Roger replied from the hearthrug. He stood on tip-toe to get a view of the surface of the chimney-piece. “Here you are!” he exclaimed excitedly. “What did I tell you? Look at this! The room hasn’t been dusted this morning, of course. Here’s a ring where the vase stood.”

He dragged a chair across and mounted it to obtain a better view. Alec’s inch or two of extra height enabled him to see well enough by standing on the shallow fender. There was very little dust on the chimney-piece, but enough to show a faint though well-defined ring upon the surface. Roger reached across for the other vase and fitted its base over the mark. It coincided exactly.

“That proves it,” Roger remarked with some satisfaction. “I knew I was right, of course; but it’s always pleasant to be able to prove it.” He bent forward and examined the surface closely. “I wonder what on earth all these other little marks are, though,” he went on thoughtfully. “I don’t seem able to account for them. What do you make of them?”

Dotted about both in the ring and outside it were a number of faint impressions in the shallow dust; some large and broad, others quite small. All were irregular in shape, and their edges merged so imperceptibly into the surrounding dust that it was impossible to say where one began or the other ended. A few inches to the left of the ring, however, the dust had been swept clean away across the whole depth of the surface for a width of nearly a foot.

“I don’t know,” Alec confessed. “They don’t convey anything to me, I’m afraid. I should say that somebody’s simply put something down here and taken it away again later. I don’t see that it’s particularly important in any case.”

“Probably it isn’t. But it’s interesting. I suppose you must be right. I can’t see any other explanation, I’m bound to say. But it must have been a very curiously shaped object, to leave those marks. Or could it have been a number of things? And why should the dust have been scraped away like that? Something must have been drawn across the surface; something flat and smooth and fairly heavy.” He meditated for a moment. “It’s funny.”

Alec stepped back from the fender. “Well, we don’t seem to be progressing much, do we?” he remarked. “Let’s try somewhere else, Sherlock.”

He wandered aimlessly over towards the French windows and stood looking out into the garden.

A sharp exclamation from Roger caused him to wheel round suddenly. The latter had descended from his chair, and was now standing on the hearth-rug and looking with interest at something he held in his hand.

“Here!” he said, holding out his palm, in which a small blue object was lying. “Come and look at this. I stepped on it just now as I got down from the chair. It was on the rug. What do you think of it?”

Alec took the object, which proved to be a small piece of broken blue china, and turned it over carefully.

“Why, this is a bit of that other vase!” he said sagely.

“Excellent, Alexander Watson. It is.”

Alec scrutinised the fragment more closely. “It must have got broken,” he announced profoundly.

“Brilliant! Your deductive powers are in wonderful form this morning, Alec,” Roger smiled. Then his face became more grave. “But seriously, this is really rather perplexing. You see what must have happened, of course. The vase got broken where it stood. In view of this bit, that’s the only possible explanation for those marks on the chimney-piece. They must have been caused by the broken pieces. And that broad patch was made by someone sweeping the pieces off the shelf—the same person, presumably, as picked up the larger bits round that ring.”

He paused and looked at Alec inquiringly.

“Well?” said that worthy.

“Well, don’t you see the difficulty? Vases don’t suddenly break where they stand. They fall and smash on the ground or something like that. This one calmly fell to pieces in its place, as far as I can see. Dash it all, it isn’t natural!—And that’s about the third unnatural thing we’ve had already,” he added in tones of mingled triumph and resentment.

Alec pressed the tobacco carefully down in his pipe and struck a match. “Aren’t you going the long way round again?” he asked slowly. “Surely there’s an obvious explanation. Someone knocked the vase over on its side and it broke on the shelf. I can’t see anything wrong with that.”

“I can,” said Roger quickly. “Two things. In the first place, those vases were far too thick to break like that simply through being knocked over on a wooden surface. In the second, even if it had been, you’d get a smooth, elliptical mark in the dust where it fell; and there isn’t one. No, there’s only one possible reason for it to break as it did, as far as I can make out.”

“And what’s that, Sherlock?”

“That it had been struck by something—and struck so hard and cleanly that it simply smashed where it stood and was not knocked into the hearth. What do you think of that?”

“It seems reasonable enough,” Alec conceded after consideration.

“You’re not very enthusiastic, are you? It’s so jolly eminently reasonable that it must be right. Now, then, the next question is—who or what hit it like that?”

“I say, do you think this is going to lead anywhere?” Alec asked suddenly. “Aren’t we wasting time over this rotten vase? I don’t see what it can have to do with what we’re looking for. Not that I have the least idea what that is, in any case,” he added candidly.

“You don’t seem to have taken to my vase, Alec. It’s a pity, because I’m getting more and more fond of it every minute. Anyhow, I’m going to put in one or two minutes’ really hard thinking about it; so if you’d like to wander out into the garden and have a chat with William, don’t let me keep you.”

Alec had strolled over to the windows again. For some reason he seemed somewhat anxious to keep the garden under observation as far as possible.

“Oh, I won’t interrupt you,” he was beginning carelessly, when at the same moment the reason appeared in sight, walking slowly on to the lawn from the direction of the rose garden. “Well, as a matter of fact, perhaps I will wander out for a bit,” he emended hurriedly. “Won’t stay away long, in case anything else crops up.” And he made a hasty exit.

Roger, following with his eyes the bee-line his newly appointed assistant was taking, smiled slightly and resumed his labours.

Alec did not waste time. There was a question which had been worrying him horribly during the last couple of hours, and he wanted an answer to it, and wanted it quickly.

“Barbara,” he said abruptly, as soon as he came abreast of her, “you know what you told me this morning. Before breakfast. It hadn’t anything to do with what’s happened here, had it?”

Barbara blushed painfully. Then as suddenly she paled.

“You mean—about Mr. Stanworth’s death?” she asked steadily, looking him full in the eyes.

Alec nodded.

“No, it hadn’t. That was only a—a horrible coincidence.” She paused. “Why?” she asked suddenly.

Alec looked supremely uncomfortable. “Oh, I don’t know. You see, you said something about—well, about a horrible thing that had happened. And then half an hour later, when we knew that—I mean, I couldn’t help wondering just for the moment whether——” He floundered into silence.

“It’s all right, Alec,” said Barbara gently. “It was a perfectly reasonable mistake to make. As I said, that was only a dreadful coincidence.”

“And aren’t you going to change your mind about what you said this morning?” asked Alec humbly.

Barbara looked at him quickly. “Why should I?” she returned swiftly. “I mean——” She hesitated and corrected herself. “Why should you think I might?”

“I don’t know. You were very upset this morning, and it occurred to me that you might have had bad news and were acting on the spur of the moment; and perhaps when you had thought it over, you might——” He broke off meaningly.

Barbara seemed strangely ill at ease. She did not reply at once to Alec’s unspoken question, but twisted her wisp of a handkerchief between her fingers with nervous gestures that were curiously out of place in this usually uncommonly self-possessed young person.

“Oh, I don’t know what to say,” she replied at last, in low, hurried tones. “I can’t tell you anything at present, Alec. I may have acted too much on the spur of the moment. I don’t know. Come and see me when we get back from the Mertons’ next month. I shall have to think things over.”

“And you won’t tell me what the trouble was, dear?”

“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me that, Alec. You see, that isn’t really my secret. No, I can’t possibly tell you!”

“All right. But—but you do love me, don’t you?”

Barbara laid her hand on his arm with a swift, caressing movement. “It wasn’t anything to do with that, old boy,” she said softly. “Come and see me next month. I think—I think I might have changed my mind again by then. No, Alec! You mustn’t! Anyhow, not here of all places. Perhaps I’ll let you once—just a tiny one!—before we go; but not unless you’re good. Besides, I’ve got to run in and pack now. We’re catching the two forty-one, and Mother will be waiting for me.”

She gave his hand a sudden squeeze and turned towards the house.

“That was a bit of luck, meeting her out here!” murmured Alec raptly to himself as he watched her go. Wherein he was not altogether correct in his statement of fact; for as the lady had come into the garden for that express purpose, the subsequent meeting might be said to be due rather to good generalship than good luck.

It was therefore a remarkably jubilant Watson who returned blithely to the library to find his Sherlock sitting solemnly in the chair before the big writing table and staring hard at the chimney-piece.

In spite of himself he shivered slightly. “Ugh, you ghoulish brute!” he exclaimed.

Roger looked at him abstractedly. “What’s up?”

“Well, I can’t say that I should like to sit in that particular chair just yet awhile.”

“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Roger said, rising slowly to his feet. “I’ve just had a pretty curious idea, and I’m going to test it. The chances are several million to one against it coming off, but if it does——! Well, I don’t know what the devil we’re going to do!”

He had spoken so seriously that Alec gaped at him in surprise. “Good Lord, what’s up now?” he asked.

“Well, I won’t say in so many words,” Roger replied slowly, “because it’s really too fantastic. But it’s to do with the breaking of that second vase. You remember I said that in order for it to have smashed like that it must have been struck extraordinarily hard by some mysterious object. It’s just occurred to me what that object might possibly have been.”

He walked across to where the chair was still standing in front of the fireplace and stepped up on to it. Then, with a glance towards the chair he had just left, he began to examine the woodwork at the back of the chimney-piece. Alec watched him in silence. Suddenly he bent forward with close attention and prodded a finger at the panel; and Alec noticed that his face had gone very pale.

He turned and descended, a little unsteadily, from the chair. “My hat, but I was right!” he exclaimed softly, staring at Alec with raised eyebrows. “That second vase was smashed by a bullet! You’ll find its mark just behind that little pillar on the left there.”

CHAPTER VIII.
Mr. Sheringham Becomes Startling

For a moment there was silence between the two. Then:

“Great Scott!” Alec remarked. “Absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely. It’s a bullet mark all right. The bullet isn’t there, but it must have just embedded itself in the wood and been dug out with a pen-knife. You can see the marks of the blade round the hole. Get up and have a look.”

Alec stepped on to the chair and felt the hole in the wood with a large forefinger. “Couldn’t be an old mark, could it?” he asked, examining it curiously. “Some of this panelling’s been pretty well knocked about.”

“No; I thought of that. An old hole would have the edges more or less smoothed down; those are quite jagged and splintery. And where the knife’s cut the wood away the surface is quite different to the rest. Not so dark. No; that mark’s a recent one, all right.”

Alec got down from the chair. “What do you make of it?” he asked abruptly.

“I’m not sure,” said Roger slowly. “It means rather a drastic rearrangement of our ideas, doesn’t it? But I’ll tell you one highly important fact, and that is that a line from this mark through the middle of the ring in the dust leads straight to the chair in front of the writing table. That seems to me jolly significant. I tell you what. Let’s go out on to the lawn and talk it over. We don’t want to stay in here too long in any case.”

He carefully replaced the chair on the hearth-rug in its proper position and walked out into the garden. Alec dutifully followed, and they made for the cedar tree once more.

“Go on,” said the latter when they were seated. “This is going to be interesting.”

Roger frowned abstractedly. He was enjoying himself hugely. With his capacity for throwing himself heart and soul into whatever he happened to be doing at the moment, he was already beginning to assume the profound airs of a great detective. The pose was a perfectly unconscious one; but none the less typical.

“Well, taking as our starting point the fact that the bullet was fired from a line which includes the chair in which Mr. Stanworth was sitting,” he began learnedly, “and assuming, as I think we have every right to do, that it was fired between, let us say, the hours of midnight and two o’clock this morning, the first thing that strikes us is the fact that in all probability it must have been fired by Mr. Stanworth himself.”

“We then remember,” said Alec gravely, “that the inspector particularly mentioned that only one shot had been fired from Mr. Stanworth’s revolver, and realise at once what idiots we were to have been struck by anything of the kind. In other words, try again!”

“Yes, that is rather a nuisance,” said Roger thoughtfully. “I was forgetting that.”

“I thought you were,” remarked Alec unkindly.

Roger pondered. “This is very dark and difficult,” he said at length, dropping the pontifical manner he had assumed. “As far as I can see it’s the only reasonable theory that the second shot was fired by old Stanworth. The only other alternative is that it was fired by somebody else, who happened to be standing in a direct line with Stanworth and the vase and who was using a revolver of the same, or nearly the same, calibre as Stanworth’s. That doesn’t seem very likely on the face of it, does it?”

“But more so than that it was a shot from Stanworth’s revolver which was never fired at all,” Alec commented dryly.

“Well, why did the inspector say that only one shot had been fired from that revolver?” Roger asked. “Because there was only one empty shell. But mark this. He mentioned at the same time that the revolver wasn’t fully loaded. Now, wouldn’t it have been possible for Stanworth to have fired that shot and then for some reason or other (Heaven knows what!) to have extracted the shell?”

“It would, I suppose; yes. But in that case wouldn’t you expect to find the shell somewhere in the room?”

“Well, it may be there. We haven’t looked for it yet. Anyhow, we can’t get away from the fact that in all probability Stanworth did fire that other shot. Now why did he fire it?”

“Search me!” said Alec laconically.

“I think we can rule out the idea that he was just taking a pot-shot at the vase out of sheer joie de vivre, or that he was trying to shoot himself and was such a bad shot that he hit something in the exact opposite direction.”

“Yes, I think we might rule those out,” said Alec cautiously.

“Well, then, Stanworth was firing with an object. What at? Obviously some other person. So Stanworth was not alone in the library last night, after all! We’re getting on, aren’t we?”

“A jolly sight too fast,” Alec grumbled. “You don’t even know for anything like certain that the second shot was fired last night at all, and——”

“Oh, yes, I do, friend Alec. The vase was broken last night.”

“Well, in any case, you don’t know that Stanworth fired it. And here you are already inventing somebody else for him to shoot at? It’s too rapid for me.”

“Alec, you are Scotch, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing; except that your bump of native caution seems to be remarkably well developed. Try and get over it. I’ll take the plunges; you follow. Where had we got to? Oh, yes; Stanworth was not alone in the library last night. Now, then, what does that give us?”

“Heaven only knows what it won’t give you,” murmured Alec despairingly.

“I know what it’s going to give you,” retorted Roger complacently, “and that’s a shock. It’s my firm impression that old Stanworth never committed suicide at all last night.”

“What?” Alec gasped. “What on earth do you mean?”

“That he was murdered!”

Alec lowered his pipe and stared with incredulous eyes at his companion.

“My dear old chap,” he said after a little pause, “have you gone suddenly quite daft?”

“On the contrary,” replied Roger calmly, “I was never so remarkably sane in my life.”

“But—but how could he possibly have been murdered? The windows all fastened and the door locked on the inside, with the key in the lock as well! And, good Lord, his own statement sitting on the table in front of him! Roger, my dear old chap, you’re mad.”

“To say nothing of the fact that his grip on the revolver was—what did the doctor call it? Oh, yes; properly adjusted, and must have been applied during life. Yes, there are certainly difficulties, Alec, I grant you.”

Alec shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “This affair’s gone to your head,” he said shortly. “Talk about making mountains out of molehills! Good Lord! You’re making a whole range of them out of a single worm-cast.”

“Very prettily put, Alec,” Roger commented approvingly. “Perhaps I am. But my impression is that old Stanworth was murdered. I might be wrong, of course,” he added candidly. “But I very seldom am.”

“But dash it all, the thing’s out of the question! You’re going the wrong way round once more. Even if there was a second man in the library last night—which I very much doubt!—you can’t get away from the fact that he must have gone before Stanworth locked himself in like that. That being the case, we get back to suicide again. You can’t have it both ways, you know. I’m not saying that this mythical person may not have put pressure of some sort on Stanworth (that is, if he ever existed at all) and forced him to commit suicide. But as for murder——! Why, the idea’s too dashed silly for words!” Alec was getting quite heated at this insult to his logic.

Roger was unperturbed. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I had an idea it would be a bit of a shock to you. But to tell you the truth I was a bit suspicious about this suicide business almost from the very first. I couldn’t get over the place of the wound, you know. And then all the rest of it, windows and door and confession and what not—well, instead of reassuring me, they made me more suspicious still. I couldn’t help feeling more and more that it was a case of Qui s’excuse, s’accuse. Or to put it in another way, that the whole scene looked like a stage very carefully arranged for the second act after all the débris of the first act had been cleared away. Foolish of me, no doubt, but that’s what I felt.”

Alec snorted. “Foolish! That’s putting it mildly.”

“Don’t be so harsh with me, Alec,” Roger pleaded. “I think I’m being rather brilliant.”

“You always were a chap to let things run away with you,” Alec grunted. “Just because a couple of people act a little queerly and a couple more don’t look as mournful as you think they ought, you dash off and rake up a little murder all to yourself. Going to tell the inspector about this wonderful idea of yours?”

“No, I’m not,” said Roger with decision. “This is my little murder, as you’re good enough to call it, and I’m not going to be done out of it. When I’ve got as far as I can, then I’ll think about telling the police or not.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re not going to make a fool of yourself to that extent,” said Alec with relief.

“You wait, Alexander,” Roger admonished. “You may make a mock of me now, if you like——”

“Thanks!” Alec put in gratefully.

“—but if my luck holds, I’m going to make you sit up and take notice.”

“Then perhaps you’ll begin by explaining how this excellent murderer of yours managed to get away from the room and leave everything locked on the inside behind him,” said Alec sarcastically. “He didn’t happen to be a magician in a small way, did he? Then you could let him out through the key-hole, you know.”

Roger shook his head sadly. “My dear but simple-minded Alexander, I can give you a perfectly reasonable explanation of how that murder might have been committed last night, and yet leave all these doors and windows of yours securely fastened on the inside this morning.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” said Alec derisively. “Well, let’s have it.”

“Certainly. The murderer was still inside when we broke in, concealed somewhere where nobody thought of looking.”

Alec started. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Of course we never searched the place. So you think he was really there the whole time?”

“On the contrary,” Roger smiled gently, “I know he wasn’t, for the simple reason that there was no place for him to hide in. But you asked for an explanation, and I gave you one.”

Alec snorted again, but with rather less confidence this time. Roger’s glib smoothing away of the impossible had been a little unexpected. He tried a new tack.

“Well, what about motive?” he asked. “You can’t have a murder without motive, you know. What on earth could have been the motive for murdering poor old Stanworth?”

“Robbery!” returned Roger promptly. “That’s one of the things that put me on the idea of murder. That safe’s been opened, or I’m a Dutchman. You remember what I said about the keys. I shouldn’t be surprised if Stanworth kept a large sum of money and other negotiable valuables in there. That’s what the murderer was after. And so you’ll see, when the safe is opened this afternoon.”

Alec grunted. It was clear that, if not convinced, he was at any rate impressed. Roger was so specious and so obviously sure himself of being on the right track, that even a greater sceptic than Alec might have been forgiven for beginning to doubt the meaning of apparently plain facts.

“Hullo!” said Roger suddenly. “Isn’t that the lunch bell? We’d better nip in and wash. Not a word of this to anyone, of course.”

They rose and began to saunter towards the house. Suddenly Alec stopped and smote his companion on the shoulder.

“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “Both of us! We’d forgotten all about the confession. At any rate, you can’t get away from that.”

“Ah, yes,” said Roger thoughtfully. “There’s that confession, isn’t there? But no; I hadn’t forgotten that by any means, Alexander.”

CHAPTER IX.
Mr. Sheringham Sees Visions

They entered the house by the front door, which always stood open whenever a party was in progress. The unspoken thought was in the minds of both that they preferred not to pass through the library. Alec hurried upstairs at once. Roger, noticing that the butler was in the act of sorting the second post and arranging it upon the hall table, lingered to see if there was a letter for him.

The butler, observing his action, shook his head. “Nothing for you, sir. Very small post, indeed.” He glanced through the letters he still held in his hand. “Major Jefferson, Miss Shannon, Mrs. Plant. No, sir. Nothing else.”

“Thank you, Graves,” said Roger, and followed in Alec’s wake.

Lunch was a silent meal, and the atmosphere was not a little constrained. Nobody liked to mention the subject which was uppermost in the minds of all; and to speak of anything else seemed out of place. What little conversation there was concerned only the questions of packing and trains. Mrs. Plant, who appeared a little late for the meal but seemed altogether to have regained her mental poise after her strange behaviour in the morning, was to leave a little after five. This would give her time, she explained, to wait for the safe to be opened so that she could recover her jewels. Roger, pondering furiously over the matter-of-fact air with which she made this statement and trying to reconcile it with the conclusions at which he had already arrived regarding her, was forced to admit himself completely at sea again, in this respect at any rate.

And this was not the only thing that perplexed him. Major Jefferson, who had appeared during the earlier part of the morning subdued to the point of gloominess, now wore an air of quiet satisfaction which Roger found extremely difficult to explain. Assuming that Jefferson had been extremely anxious that the police should not be the first persons to open the safe—and that was the only conclusion which Roger could draw from what had already transpired—what could have occurred in the meantime to have raised his spirits to this extent? Visions of duplicate keys and opportunities in the empty library which he himself ought to have been on hand to prevent, flashed, in rapid succession, across Roger’s mind. Yet the only possible time in which he had not been either inside the library or overlooking it were the very few minutes while he was washing his hands upstairs before lunch; and it seemed hardly probable that Jefferson would have had the nerve to utilise them in order to carry out what was in effect a minor burglary, and that with the possibility of being interrupted at any minute. It is true that he had come in very late for lunch (several minutes after Mrs. Plant, in fact); but Roger could not think this theory in the least degree probable.

Yet the remarkable fact remained that the two persons who appeared to have been most concerned about the safe and its puzzling contents were now not only not in the least concerned at the prospect of its immediate official opening, but actually quietly jubilant. Or so, at any rate, it seemed to the baffled Roger. Taking it all round, Roger was not sorry that lunch was such a quiet meal. He found that he had quite a lot of thinking to do.

In this respect he was no less busy when lunch was over. Alec disappeared directly after the meal, and as Barbara disappeared at the same time, Roger was glad to find one problem at least that did not seem to be beyond the scope of his deductive powers. He solved it with some satisfaction and, by looking at his watch, was able to arrive at the conclusion that he would have at least half an hour to himself before his fellow-sleuth would be ready for the trail again. Somewhat thankfully he betook himself to the friendly cedar once more, and lit his pipe preparatory to embarking upon the most concentrated spell of hard thinking he had ever faced in his life.

For in spite of the confidence he had shown to Alec, Roger was in reality groping entirely in the dark. The suggestion of murder, which he had advanced with such assurance, had appeared to him at the time not a little far-fetched; and the fact that he had put it forward at all was due as much as anything to the overwhelming desire to startle the stolid Alec out of some of his complacency. Several times Roger had found himself on the verge of becoming really exasperated with Alec that morning. He was not usually so slow in the uptake, almost dull, as he had been in this affair; yet just now, when Roger was secretly not a little pleased with himself, all he had done was to throw cold water upon everything. It was a useful check to his own exuberance, no doubt; but Roger could wish that his audience, limited by necessity to so small a number, had been a somewhat more appreciative one.

His thoughts returned to the question of murder. Was it so far-fetched, after all? He had been faintly suspicious even before his discovery of the broken vase and that mysterious second shot. Now he was very much more so. Only suspicious, it is true; there was no room as yet for conviction. But suspicion was very strong.

He tried to picture the scene that might have taken place in the library. Old Stanworth, sitting at his table with, possibly, the French windows open, suddenly surprised by the entrance of some unexpected visitor. The visitor either demands money or attacks at once. Stanworth whips a revolver out of the drawer at his side and fires, missing the intruder but hitting the vase. And then—what?

Presumably the two would close then and fight it out in silence. But there had been no signs of a struggle when they broke in, nothing but that still figure lying so calmly in his chair. Still, did that matter very much? If the unknown could collect those fragments of vase so carefully in order to conceal any trace of his presence, he could presumably clear away any evidence of a struggle. But before that there was that blank wall to be surmounted—how did the struggle end?

Roger closed his eyes and gave his imagination full rein. He saw Stanworth, the revolver still in his hand, swaying backwards and forwards in the grip of his adversary. He saw the latter (a big powerful man, as he pictured him) clasp Stanworth’s wrist to prevent him pointing the revolver at himself. There had been a scratch on the dead man’s wrist, now he came to think of it; could this be how he had acquired it? He saw the intruder’s other hand dart to his pocket and pull out his own revolver. And then——!

Roger slapped his knee in his excitement. Then, of course, the unknown had simply clapped his revolver to Stanworth’s forehead and pulled the trigger!

He leant back in his chair and smoked furiously. Yes, if there had been a murder, that must have been how it was committed. And that accounted for three, at any rate, of the puzzling circumstances—the place of the wound, the fact that only one empty shell had been found in Stanworth’s revolver although two shots had been fired that night, and the fact of the dead man’s grip upon the revolver being properly adjusted. It was only conjecture, of course, but it seemed remarkably convincing conjecture.

Yet was it not more than counterbalanced by the facts that still remained? That the windows and door could be fastened, as they certainly had been, appeared to argue irresistibly that the midnight visitor had left the library while Mr. Stanworth was still alive. The confession, signed with his own hand, pointed equally positively to suicide. Could there be any way of explaining these two things so as to bring them into line with the rest? If not, this brilliant theorising must fall to the ground.

Shelving the problem of the visitor’s exit for the time being, Roger began to puzzle over that laconically worded document.

During the next quarter of an hour Roger himself might have presented a problem to an acute observer, had there been one about, which, though not very difficult of solution, was nevertheless not entirely without interest. To smoke furiously, with one’s pipe in full blast, betokens no small a degree of mental excitement; to sit like a stone image and allow that same pipe to go out in one’s mouth is evidence of still greater prepossession; but what are we to say of a man who, after passing through these successive stages, smokes away equally furiously at a perfectly cold pipe under the obvious impression that it is in as full blast as before? And that is what Roger was doing for fully three minutes before he finally jumped suddenly to his feet and hurried off once again to that happy hunting ground of his, the library.

There Alec found him twenty minutes later, when the car had departed irrevocably for the station. A decidedly more cheerful Alec than that of the morning, one might note in passing; and not looking in the least like a young man who has just parted with his lady for a whole month. It is a reasonable assumption that Alec had not been wasting the last half hour.

“Still at it?” he grinned from the doorway. “I had a sort of idea I should find you here.”

Roger was a-quiver with excitement. He scrambled up from his knees beside the waste-paper basket, into which he had been peering, and flourished a piece of paper in the other’s face.

“I’m on the track!” he exclaimed. “I’m on the track, Alexander, in spite of your miserable sneers. Nobody around, is there?”

Alec shook his head. “Well? What have you discovered now?” he asked tolerantly.

Roger gripped his arm and drew him towards the writing table. With an eager finger he stubbed at the blotter.

“See that?” he demanded.

Alec bent and scrutinised the blotter attentively. Just in front of Roger’s finger were a number of short lines not more than an inch or so long. The ones at the left-hand end were little more than scratches on the surface, not inked at all; those in the middle bore faint traces of ink; while towards the right end the ink was bold and the lines thick and decided. Beyond these were a few circular blots of ink. Apart from these markings, the sheet of white blotting paper, clearly fresh within the last day or two, had scarcely been used.

“Well?” said Roger triumphantly. “Make anything of it?”

“Nothing in particular,” Alec confessed, straightening up again. “I should say that somebody had been cleaning his pen on it.”

“In that case,” Roger returned with complacency, “it would become my painful duty to inform you that you were completely wrong.”

“Why? I don’t see it.”

“Then look again. If he had been cleaning his pen, Alexander Watson, the change from ink to the lack of it would surely be from left to right, wouldn’t it? Not from right to left?”

“Would it? He might have moved from right to left.”

“It isn’t natural. Besides, look at these little strokes. Nearly all of them have a slight curve in the tail towards the right. That means they must have been made from left to right. Guess again.”

“Oh, well, let’s try the reverse,” said Alec, nettled into irony. “He wasn’t cleaning his pen at all; he was dirtying it.”

“Meaning that he had dipped it in the ink and was just trying it out? Nearer. But take another look, especially at this left-hand end. Don’t you see where the nib has split in the centre to make these two parallel furrows? Well, just observe not only how far apart those furrows are, but also the fact that, though pretty deep, there isn’t a sign of a scratch. Now, then, what does all that tell you? There’s only one sort of pen that could have made those marks, and the answer to that tells you what the marks are.”

Alec pondered dutifully. “A fountain pen! And he was trying to make it write.”

“Wonderful! Alec, I can see you’re going to be a tremendous help in this little game.”

“Well, I don’t see anything to make such a fuss about, even if they were made by a fountain pen. I mean, it doesn’t seem to take us any forrader.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Roger had an excellent though somewhat irritating sense of the dramatic. He paused impressively.

“Well?” asked Alec impatiently. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, I know, and you’re aching to get it out. Let’s have it. What do these wonderful marks of yours show you?”

“Simply that the confession is a fake,” retorted Roger happily. “And now let’s go out in the garden.”

He turned on his heel and walked rapidly out on to the sun-drenched lawn. One must admit that Roger had his annoying moments.

The justly exasperated Alec trotted after him. “Talk about Sherlock Holmes!” he growled, as he caught him up. “You’re every bit as maddening yourself. Why can’t you tell me all about it straight out if you really have discovered something, instead of beating about the bush like this?”

“But I have told you, Alexander,” said Roger, with an air of bland innocence. “That confession is a fake.”

“But why?”

Roger hooked his arm through that of the other and piloted him in the direction of the rose garden.

“I want to stick around here,” he explained, “so as to see the inspector when he comes up the drive. I’m not going to miss the opening of that safe for anything.”

“Why do you think that confession’s a fake?” repeated Alec doggedly.

“That’s better, Alexander,” commented Roger approvingly. “You seem to be showing a little interest in my discoveries at last. You haven’t been at all a good Watson up to now, you know. It’s your business to be thrilled to the core whenever I announce a farther step forward. You’re a rotten thriller, Alec.”

A slight smile appeared on Alec’s face. “You do all the thrilling needed yourself, I fancy. Besides, old Holmes went a bit slower than you. He didn’t jump to conclusions all in a minute, and I doubt if ever he was as darned pleased with himself all the time as you are.”

“Don’t be harsh with me, Alec,” Roger murmured.

“I admit you haven’t done so badly so far,” Alec pursued candidly; “though when all’s said and done most of it’s guesswork. But if I grovelled in front of you, as you seem to want, and kept telling you what a dashed fine fellow you are, you’d probably have arrested Jefferson and Mrs. Plant by this time, and had Lady Stanworth committed for contempt of court or something.” He paused and considered. “In fact, what you want, old son,” he concluded weightily, “is a brake, not a blessed accelerator.”

“I’m sorry,” Roger said with humility. “I’ll remember in future. But if you won’t compliment me, at least let me compliment you. You’re a jolly good brake.”

“And after that, Detective Sheringham, perhaps you’ll kindly tell me how you deduce that the confession is a fake from the fact that old Stanworth’s pen wouldn’t write.”

Roger’s air changed and his face became serious.

“Yes, this really is rather important. It clinches the fact of murder, which was certainly a shot in the dark of mine before. Here’s the thing that gives it away.”

He produced from his pocket the piece of paper which he had waved in Alec’s face in the library and, unfolding it carefully, handed it to the other. Alec looked at it attentively. It bore numerous irregular folds, as if it had been considerably crumpled, and in the centre, somewhat smudged, were the words “Victor St——,” culminating in a large blot. The writing was very thickly marked. The right-hand side of the paper was spattered with a veritable shower of blots. Beyond these there was nothing upon its surface.

“Humph!” observed Alec, handing it back. “Well, what do you make of it?”

“I think it’s pretty simple,” Roger said, folding the paper and stowing it carefully away again. “Stanworth had just filled his fountain pen, or it wouldn’t work or something. You know what one does with a fountain pen that doesn’t want to write. Make scratches on the nearest piece of paper, and as soon as the ink begins to flow——”

“Sign one’s name!” Alec broke in, with the nearest approach to excitement that he had yet shown.

“Precisely! On the blotting pad are the preliminary scratches to bring the ink down the pen. What happens in nine cases out of ten after that? The ink flows too freely and the pen floods. This bit of paper shows that it happened in this case, too. Stanworth was rather an impatient sort of man, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I suppose he was. Fairly.”

“Well, the scene’s easy enough to reconstruct. He tries the pen out on the blotting pad. As soon as it begins to write he grabs a sheet from the top of that pile of fellow-sheets on his desk (did you notice them, by the way?) and signs his name. Then the pen floods, and he shakes it violently, crumples up the sheet of paper, throws it into the waste-paper basket and takes another. This time the pen, after losing so much ink in blots, is a little faint at first; so he only gets as far as the C in Victor before starting again, just below the last attempt. Then at last it writes all right, and his signature is completed, with the usual flourish. He picks up the piece of paper, crumples it slightly, but not so violently as before, and throws it also into the waste-paper basket. How’s that?”

“That all seems feasible enough. What next?”

“Why, the murderer, setting the room to rights afterwards, thinks he’d better have a look in the basket. The first thing he spots is that piece of paper. ‘Aha!’ he thinks. ‘The very thing I wanted to put a finishing touch to the affair!’ Smoothes it carefully out, puts it in the typewriter and types those few words above the signature. What could be simpler?”

“By Jove, I wonder! It’s jolly ingenious.”

Roger’s eyes were sparkling. “Ingenious? Yes; but in its very simplicity. Oh, that’s what happened, sure enough. There’s plenty of corroboration, when you come to think of it. The way the whole thing’s got into the top half of the sheet of paper, for instance. That isn’t natural, really, is it? It ought to be in the middle, with the signature about two thirds down. And why isn’t it? Because the signature was in the middle already, and the fellow had to work upwards from that.”

“I believe you must be right,” Alec said slowly.

“Well, don’t be so grudging about it. Of course I’m right! As a matter of fact, those scratches on the blotting paper gave me the idea as soon as I saw them. I’d been puzzling after a way of getting round that confession. But when I found that second sheet in the waste-paper basket of course the thing was as plain as a pikestaff. That was a bad blunder of his, by the way; not to look through the rest of the basket’s contents.”

“Yes,” Alec agreed seriously. “And supposing the inspector had found it. It might have given him something to think about, mightn’t it?”

“It might and it mightn’t. Of course from the inspector’s point of view there’s been nothing to afford the least question as to the plain fact of suicide; except the absence of motive, of course, and that’s really nothing, after all. He hasn’t had his suspicions aroused more or less by accident, as it were, like we have.”

“We’ve had the luck, all right,” Alec remarked, possibly in his rôle of brake.

“Undoubtedly, but we haven’t let it lie about untouched,” Roger said complacently. “In fact, I think we’ve done very well indeed up to now,” he added candidly. “I don’t see how we could have done more, do you?”

“No, I’m dashed if I do,” said Alec with decision.

“But there’s one thing needed to round it off nicely.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“To find the murderer,” Roger replied calmly.

CHAPTER X.
Mrs. Plant is Apprehensive

“Great Scott!” Alec exclaimed, considerably startled. “Find the murderer?”

Roger seemed pleased with the impression he had made. “Naturally. What else? It’s the logical sequel to what we’ve already done, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Alec hesitated, “if you put it like that. But—— Well, we seem to be getting on so jolly fast. I mean, it’s rather difficult to realise that a murder’s been committed at all. It all seems so impossible, you know.”

“That’s simply because it’s something foreign to your usual experience of life,” Roger said thoughtfully. “I admit that it is a bit of a shock at first to face the fact that Stanworth was murdered instead of committing suicide. But that’s not because there’s anything inherently improbable about murder itself. Murder’s a common enough event if it comes to that. But it doesn’t generally take place among the circle of one’s immediate friends; that’s the trouble. Anyhow, there’s no getting over it in this case. If ever a man was murdered, Stanworth was. And very cleverly murdered, too. I tell you, Alec, it’s no ordinary criminal we’re after. It’s an extraordinarily cool, brainy, and calculating sort of person indeed.”

“Calculating?” Alec repeated. “Then do you think it was premeditated?”

“Impossible to say, as yet. But I should certainly imagine so. It looks as if it had been very carefully thought out beforehand, doesn’t it?”

“There doesn’t seem to have been much left to chance,” Alec agreed.

“And look at the deliberation of the fellow. Fancy stopping to collect those bits of vase and cover up the traces of that second shot like that! He must have some nerve. Yes, it certainly looks more and more as if it was a prearranged thing. I don’t say for last night in particular; that may only have been a favourable opportunity which the chap was quick to seize. But I do think that he’d made up his mind to kill Stanworth some time or other.”

“You think it was somebody Stanworth knew, then?”

“Oh, there’s not much doubt about that. And somebody he was vastly afraid of, too, I should imagine. Why else should he keep a revolver so handy, if he wasn’t expecting something of the kind? Yes, that’s the line we ought to go on—see if we can discover whether there was anybody among his acquaintances of whom Stanworth was thoroughly frightened. If we can only find that out, and the name of the person as well, the odds are ten to one that we shall have solved the mystery of the murderer’s identity.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” said Alec with interest. “Got any theory of how it was done?”

Roger beamed. “I believe I can tell you exactly how it was done,” he said, not without pride. “Listen!”

He recounted at some length the results of his after-lunch meditations and explained the reasons upon which his conclusions had been based. It took the two of them several circuits of the rose garden before the recital was completed, and then Roger turned expectantly to his companion.

“You see?” he concluded eagerly. “That accounts for everything except the facts of the confession and the murderer’s escape from the library. Now I’ve cleared up the confession, and we’ve only got one difficulty to get over. What do you think of it?”

“Humph!” observed Alec cautiously. He paused, and it was evident that he was thinking deeply.

“Well?” asked Roger impatiently.

“There’s one thing I don’t quite see,” Alec said slowly. “According to you the shot that killed Stanworth was fired from the other man’s revolver. Then how is it that the bullet they took out of his head fitted the empty shell in his own revolver?”

Roger’s face fell. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “That never occurred to me.”

“I thought it couldn’t have,” said Alec complacently. “That rather knocks your theory on the head, doesn’t it?”

“It’s one to you, Watson, certainly,” Roger smiled a little ruefully.

“Ah!” observed Alec deeply. He was evidently not going to spoil the impression he had just made by any rash remarks. Alec was one of those fortunate people who know just when to stop.

“Still, after all,” Roger said slowly, “that’s only a matter of detail, isn’t it? My version of how it happened may be quite wrong. But that doesn’t affect the main issue, which is that it was done.”

“In other words, the fact of murder is definitely established, you think, although you don’t know how it was carried out?” Alec asked thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Humph! And do you still think the motive was robbery?”

“I do. And—— By Jove!” Roger stopped suddenly in his stride and turned exultantly to his companion. “That may account for Mrs. Plant, too!”

“What about Mrs. Plant?”

“Well, didn’t you notice her at lunch? She was as cheerful and unconcerned as anything. Rather a change from the very perturbed person we surprised at the safe this morning, wasn’t it? And on the face of it you’d have expected her to be still more worried, with the prospect of the opening of the safe this afternoon and the proving of her little story to us to be false. But was she? Not a bit of it. She looked as if she hadn’t a trouble in the world. You must have noticed it.”

“Yes, I did, now you come to mention it. I thought she must be acting.”

“Mrs. Plant wasn’t acting at lunch any more than she was telling the truth to us this morning,” said Roger with conviction. “And why wasn’t she? Because for some mysterious reason or other she had no need to be. In other words, she knew that when the safe was opened this afternoon, everything would be all right as far as she was concerned.”

“How on earth did she know that?”

“I wish I could tell you. But consider. If the safe had been robbed last night, Mrs. Plant’s jewels would have disappeared with the other valuables, wouldn’t they? That is, assuming that they had ever been there. Well, there’s her answer to us. ‘Oh, yes, my jewels were there, and that’s why I wanted to get at the safe; but they’ve been stolen with everything else, and that’s why they’re not there now.’ See?”

“Yes, but what I want to know is, how did she find out that the safe had been robbed and her story to us would hold water after all?”

“And that’s exactly what I want to know, too, my excellent Alec. If we only knew that, we should have advanced a long way to the solution of the mystery. All that we can say definitely is that, some time between our finding her in the library and lunch time, information must have reached her about what happened to the safe last night. It seems to me that Mrs. Plant is going to find herself in a very awkward position rather soon.”

“But why do you think Mrs. Plant wanted to open the safe this morning, if there’s no truth in her tale?”

“Obviously there must have been something inside that she badly wanted to get hold of. Equally obviously she now either has got hold of it, or knows that it’s in safe keeping. And then we get back to Jefferson again. He’s been going through exactly the same sequence of emotions as Mrs. Plant. What do you make of that?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that Jefferson and Mrs. Plant are in league together, are you?”

“What other conclusion is there? They’re both anxious to get something out of that safe before the police open it, and they’re both palpably worried to death over something. Yet at one o’clock they’re both smiling away to themselves as if a tremendous load had been taken off their minds. I’m afraid that they’re not only in league with each other, but with a mysterious third person as well. How else can you account for their behaviour?”

“Good Lord! You don’t mean that they’re acting with—with the murderer, do you?”

“It looks to me uncommonly like it,” said Roger gravely. “After all, he’s the only person, so far as we know, who could have enlightened them about the safe.”

“But it’s out of the question!” Alec burst out impulsively. “Jefferson—I don’t know anything about him, though I should certainly have set him down as quite a decent fellow and a sahib, even if he is a bit reserved. But Mrs. Plant! My dear chap, you’re absolutely off the rails there. Of all the obviously straightforward and honest people in the world, I should have said that Mrs. Plant was the most. Oh, you must be on the wrong tack!”

“I only wish I were,” Roger returned seriously. “Three hours ago I should have said that the idea of Mrs. Plant being mixed up in a murder was not only unthinkable, but ludicrous. I’ve always thought her a charming woman, and, as you say, absolutely sincere. Certainly not a happy woman (one doesn’t know anything about that husband of hers, by the way; he may be a bad egg); in fact, a woman with a good deal of sorrow in her life, I should say. But absolutely as straight as a die. Yet what can one think now? Facts speak louder than opinions. And the facts are only too plain.”

“I don’t care,” said Alec obstinately. “If you’re trying to mix Mrs. Plant up in this affair, you’re making a hopeless mistake, Roger. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“I hope you’re right, Alec,” Roger said dryly. “By the way, I think I want to have a word with the lady. Oh, I’m not going to tax her with the murder or anything,” he added with a smile, observing the look on Alec’s face. “But I think she said at lunch that she was expecting to leave here this afternoon. Of course that’s out of the question. She was the last person to see Stanworth alive, and she’ll be wanted to give evidence at the inquest. The inspector must have forgotten to tell her. Let’s go and see what she’s got to say about it.”

Somewhat unwillingly Alec accompanied Roger on his quest. He did not attempt to make any secret of his distaste for this aspect of his new rôle. To hunt down a man who deserves no mercy and expects none is one thing; to hunt down a charming lady is very much another.

Mrs. Plant was sitting in a garden chair on a shady part of the lawn. There was a book in her lap, but she was staring abstractedly at the grass before her and her thoughts were evidently very far away. Hearing their footsteps she glanced up quickly and greeted the two with her usual quiet, rather sad smile.

“Have you come to tell me that Inspector Mansfield has arrived?” she asked, perfectly naturally.

Roger threw himself casually on the ground just in front of her.

“No, he hasn’t come yet,” he replied easily. “Very hot out here, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is. But the heat doesn’t worry me, I’m glad to say. I had enough of it in the Soudan to inure me to anything that this country can produce.”

“You’re lucky then. Alec, why on earth don’t you lie down and be comfortable? Never stand up when you can sit down instead. By the way, Mrs. Plant, I suppose you’ll be staying over for the inquest to-morrow, won’t you?”

“Oh, no. I shall be off this afternoon, Mr. Sheringham.”

Roger glanced up. “But surely you’ll be wanted to give evidence? You were the last person to see him alive, weren’t you? In the hall, you know?”

“Oh, I—I don’t think I shall be needed, shall I?” Mrs. Plant asked apprehensively, paling slightly. “The inspector didn’t—he didn’t say anything about it.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know then that you were the last person,” said Roger carelessly, but watching her narrowly. “And afterwards he must have forgotten to warn you; or else he was intending to do so this afternoon. But they’re certain to need you, you know.”

It was very clear that this piece of news was highly unwelcome. Mrs. Plant’s hand was trembling in her lap, and she was biting her lip in an effort to retain her self-control.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, in a voice that she strove desperately to render unconcerned. “But I haven’t got anything of—of any importance to tell, you know.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Roger said reassuringly. “It’s only a matter of form, you know. You’ll just have to repeat what you told the inspector this morning.”

“Will they—— Are they likely to ask me any questions, Mr. Sheringham?” Mrs. Plant asked, with a little laugh.

“Oh, they may ask you one or two, perhaps. Nothing very dreadful.”

“I see. What sort of questions, would you imagine?”

“About Mr. Stanworth’s manner, probably. Whether he was cheerful, and all that. And of course they’ll want to know what he spoke to you about.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Mrs. Plant replied quickly. “Just about—— Oh, nothing of any importance whatever. Er—you will be giving evidence, too, won’t you, Mr. Sheringham?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Only the white knuckles of her clenched hand gave any hint of Mrs. Plant’s feelings as she asked lightly enough, “And you’re not going to give me away over that absurd panic of mine about my jewels this morning, are you? You promised, didn’t you?”

“Of course not!” said Roger easily. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Not even if they ask you?” Mrs. Plant persisted, with a nervous little laugh.

“How could they ask me?” Roger smiled. “Nobody knows anything about it except us three. Besides, I shouldn’t think of giving you away.”

“Nor you, Mr. Grierson?” she asked, turning to Alec.

Alec flushed slightly. “Naturally not,” he said awkwardly.

Mrs. Plant fumbled with the handkerchief in her hand and surreptitiously wiped her mouth.

“Thank you so much, both of you,” she said in a low voice.

Roger jumped suddenly to his feet.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, putting an end to a difficult pause. “Isn’t that the inspector just going up to the front door? Let’s go in and watch the safe being opened, shall we?”

CHAPTER XI.
Lady Stanworth Exchanges Glances

Leaving Alec to accompany Mrs. Plant to the house, Roger hurried on ahead with a muttered excuse. He was anxious not to miss a moment of the highly significant scene which was about to take place. As he reached the hall, Jefferson was in the act of greeting the perspiring inspector.

“I’m sorry you have had all this trouble, Inspector,” he was saying. “It’s too bad on a day like this.”

“It is a bit warm, sir,” the inspector admitted, mopping vigorously.

“I should have thought they might have provided you with a car or something. Hullo, Sheringham. Come to see the safe opened?”

“If the inspector has no objections,” Roger said.

“Me, sir? Not in the least. In fact, I think everybody concerned ought to be present. Not that I really expect to find anything particularly important, but you never know, do you?”

“Never,” said Roger gravely.

“Well, Lady Stanworth will be down in a minute, no doubt,” Jefferson remarked; “and then we can see to it. You had no difficulty in getting the combination, Inspector?”

“None at all, sir. It was only a question of ringing up the makers. Whew! It is hot!”

Roger had been watching Jefferson carefully. There was no doubt that, whatever his feelings about the opening of the safe had been in the morning, he was now quite unperturbed. Roger was more convinced than ever that something of the first importance must have occurred to effect this radical change.

A slow tread overhead caused him to look up. Lady Stanworth was descending the stairs.

“Ah, here is Lady Stanworth,” the inspector observed, with a slight bow.

Lady Stanworth inclined her head coldly. “You wish me to be present at this formality, Inspector?” she asked distantly.

The inspector looked slightly taken aback.

“Well, I think it would be better, my lady,” he replied, a trifle deprecatingly. “As the only surviving relative of the deceased’s, you know. But of course if you have any——”

“I was not a relative of Mr. Stanworth’s,” Lady Stanworth interrupted in the same tone. “I thought I had made that clear to you this morning. He was my brother-in-law.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the inspector apologetically. “I should perhaps have said connection. It is usual for the nearest connection to be present when——”

“I ought to have warned you, perhaps, Lady Stanworth,” Jefferson put in evenly. “But, unfortunately, I have not seen you to do so since before lunch; and I did not care to take the responsibility of disturbing you. The opening of the safe is, after all, a mere formality; and both the inspector and myself have no doubt that nothing of any importance will be found. Nothing whatever.”

Lady Stanworth looked hard at the last speaker for a moment, and when she spoke again the former coldness of her tone had completely disappeared.

“Of course I will come if you think it better, Inspector,” she said graciously. “There is really no reason whatever why I should not do so.” And without more ado she led the way towards the library.

Roger brought up the rear of the little party. He was thinking furiously. He had watched the little exchange that had just taken place with feelings almost of bewilderment. It was so unlike Lady Stanworth to go out of her way to snub the poor inspector in that highly unnecessary manner. Why had she done so? And why had she been so very much on the high horse with regard to the opening of the safe? It seemed almost as if she had been really apprehensive of something, and had adopted this attitude in order to cloak her actual feelings. But if that were the case, what earthly reason could she have for apprehension? Roger asked himself despairingly.

Yet her sudden change of manner was no less remarkable. As soon as Jefferson had spoken, she had become as gracious as ever and all objections had been abruptly dropped. What was it Jefferson had said? Something about nothing of importance being found in the safe. Ah, yes. “Both the inspector and myself have no doubt that nothing of importance will be found.” And myself! Now he came to think of it, Jefferson had certainly stressed those two words a little. Could it be that he had conveyed some kind of warning to her? Information of some sort? And if so, what? Obviously the same information that he and Mrs. Plant had received during the morning. Was it possible then that Lady Stanworth herself could be in league with Mrs. Plant and Jefferson? Surely this was making things altogether too complicated. Yet he could take his oath that something had passed between those two before Lady Stanworth finally descended the last few stairs so amicably.

Thus the gist of the thoughts that whirled confusedly through Roger’s brain during the few seconds occupied by the journey to the library. As he passed the threshold he raised his eyebrows in mock despair and, shelving this fresh problem for the time being, prepared to give all his attention to present events.

Mrs. Plant and Alec were already in the library; the former perfectly cool and collected, the latter, to Roger’s eyes at any rate, somewhat ill at ease. It was clear, Roger reflected, with some uneasiness, that Alec did not at all like the highly ambiguous position in which he stood with regard to that lady. What would he say when he heard the possibility that his hostess also might not be unconcerned with this dark and mysterious business? It would be just like Alec to throw up the whole affair and insist on all cards being laid upon the table; and that would have broken Roger’s heart just at the moment.

Inspector Mansfield was regrettably lacking in an appreciation of dramatic effects. He did not gaze around him from beneath lowered brows. He did not mutter to himself so that everyone could strain forward to catch his ominous words. He did not even make a speech.

All he did was to observe cheerfully, “Well, let’s get this business over,” and casually open the safe. He could not have made less fuss had it been a tin of sardines.

But in spite of the inspector’s lamentable behaviour, drama was not altogether lacking. As the heavy door swung open, there was an involuntary catching of breath and heads were craned anxiously forward. Roger, watching the faces of the others instead of the centre of attraction, noted quickly that a flicker of anxiety flashed across the countenances of both Mrs. Plant and Jefferson. “Neither of ’em have seen inside, then,” he thought. “Their information came from a third person. That’s certain, anyway.”

But it was Lady Stanworth who held his attention most closely. Thinking herself unobserved for the moment, she had not troubled to hide her feelings. She was standing a little behind the others, peering between their heads. Her breath was coming quickly, and her bosom rising and falling almost tumultuously; her face was quite white. For a few seconds Roger thought she was going to faint. Then, as if she was reassured, the colour came back into her face and she sighed ever so softly.

“Well, Inspector?” she asked in normal tones. “What is there?”

The inspector was rapidly scrutinising the contents.

“As I expected,” he replied, a trifle disappointedly. “Nothing of any importance as far as I’m concerned, my lady.” He glanced quickly through a bundle of papers that he held in his hands. “Share certificates; business documents; contracts; more share certificates.”

He replaced the bundle in the safe and took out a cash-box.

“Whew!” he whistled softly, as he opened it. “Mr. Stanworth kept plenty of ready money on hand, didn’t he?”

Roger pricked up his ears and followed the direction of the inspector’s gaze. Lying loosely at the bottom of the cash-box was a thick wad of banknotes. The inspector picked it out and flicked them over.

“Upwards of four thousand pounds, I should say,” he remarked with fitting awe. “That doesn’t look as if he was in financial difficulties, does it?”

“I told you I thought it most unlikely,” Jefferson said shortly.

Mrs. Plant stooped and looked into the safe.

“Oh, there’s my jewel-box,” she said, in tones of relief. “On the bottom shelf.”

The inspector bent down and extracted a small case of green leather. “This, madam?” he asked. “You said this is yours?”

“Yes. I gave them to him to lock up for me yesterday morning. I never like to leave them lying about in my room if I can help it, you know.”

The inspector pressed the catch and the lid of the case flew open. A necklace, a bracelet or two, and a few rings were visible inside; pleasant little trinkets, but not of any remarkable value.

Roger exchanged glances with Alec. In the eyes of the latter there was a scarcely concealed derision which Roger found peculiarly difficult to bear in silence. If ever a look said, “I told you so!” Alec’s did at that moment.

“I suppose Lady Stanworth can identify these as yours, madam,” the inspector was saying. “Purely as a matter of form,” he added, half apologetically.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Plant easily, picking the necklace and a few other things out of the case. “You’ve seen me wearing these, haven’t you, Lady Stanworth?”

There was a perceptible pause before Lady Stanworth answered; and it seemed to Roger that she was looking at Mrs. Plant in rather an odd way. Then she said, naturally enough:

“Of course. And I remember the case, too. Yes, these belong to Mrs. Plant, Inspector.”

“Then we may as well hand them over to her at once,” said the inspector, and Lady Stanworth nodded approvingly.

“Is that all you require, Inspector?” Jefferson asked.

“Yes, sir; quite. And I’ve had my journey for nothing, I’m afraid. Still, we have to go into everything, as you know.”

“Oh, naturally,” Jefferson murmured, turning away from the safe.

“And now I must get back and finish my report,” the inspector continued. “The coroner will communicate with you this afternoon as soon as I’ve seen him again.”

“Oh, by the way, Inspector,” Mrs. Plant put in, “Mr. Sheringham was telling me that I might be wanted to attend the inquest. Is that necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, madam. You were the last person to see Mr. Stanworth alive.”

“Yes, but my—my evidence wouldn’t be of the least importance, would it? The few words I had with him about those roses can’t throw any light on the matter at all.”

“I’m very sorry, madam,” the inspector murmured, “but in these cases the last person to see the deceased alive is invariably called, whether the evidence appears to be of any importance or not.”

“Oh! Then I must take it as quite certain that I shall have to attend?” Mrs. Plant asked disappointedly.

“Quite, madam,” the inspector returned firmly, moving towards the door.

Roger hooked his arm through that of Alec and drew him out through the French windows.

“Well?” asked the latter with an undisguised grin. “Still as sure as ever that those jewels weren’t in the safe, Sherlock Sheringham?”

“Yes. I’ve been expecting a little subtle ridicule from you, Alec,” Roger said with mock humility. “No doubt I deserve it.”

“I’m glad you’re beginning to realise that,” retorted Alec pleasantly.

“Yes, for drawing the only possible conclusions from a given set of facts. Well, I suppose we shall have to go back to the beginning again, and start to draw some impossible ones instead.”

“Oh, Lord!” Alec groaned.

“But seriously, Alec,” said Roger with a change of tone, “things are going very curiously. Those jewels ought not to have been in the safe at all, you know. Nor the money either, for that matter. It’s all wrong.”

“Most annoying when things break rules like that, isn’t it? Well, I suppose you’ll allow now that Mrs. Plant was speaking the truth this morning, after all.”

“I suppose I shall have to,” said Roger reluctantly. “For the present, at any rate. But it’s very, very extraordinary.”

“That Mrs. Plant should have been speaking the truth? It seemed to me far more extraordinary that she should have been lying, as you were so jolly sure.”

“All right, Alec. Don’t get rattled. No, I wasn’t meaning that exactly. But that she should have been so remarkably agitated about those jewels of hers, as if she thought that somebody was going to steal them! And then that yarn of hers that she thought the police would take them and she wouldn’t get them back. No, say what you like, Alec, it is extraordinary.”

“Women are extraordinary,” said Alec wisely.

“Humph! Certainly Mrs. Plant is.”

“Well, at any rate, she’s exonerated, I take it.”

“No, that she isn’t,” said Roger with decision. “That lady isn’t free from suspicion yet by any means. After all, the matter of the jewels is only one of several curious circumstances. But look here, Alec; another remarkable thing has cropped up since I saw you last. I’m going to tell you, because I promised I’d share anything new with you at the very beginning. But I won’t unless you’ll promise to take it quite calmly, and not smite me with that great ham-fist of yours or throw yourself despairingly into a rose bush or anything. You know, you’re a very difficult sort of person to work with on this sort of job, Alec.”

“Fire away!” Alec grunted. “What’s happened now?”

“You won’t like it, but I can’t help that. After all, I’m only telling you facts, not theories; and there’s no getting away from them, however unwelcome they may be. It’s about Lady Stanworth this time. Listen.”

And Roger embarked upon a voluble recital of The Strange Behaviour of Lady Stanworth.

CHAPTER XII.
Hidden Chambers and What-Nots

“Oh!” said Alec carefully, when Roger had finished.

“You see? I carefully refrain from drawing any deduction. Aloud, at any rate. All I say is that it looks funny.”

“Lots of things seem to look funny to you, Roger,” Alec remarked tolerantly.

“About this case?” Roger retorted. “You’re quite right. Lots of things do. But let’s put all these side issues behind us for the moment. There’s one thing that I’m simply aching to set about.”

“Only one?” said Alec nastily. “And what’s that?”

“To find out how the murderer got away from the library last night. If we can solve that little problem, we’ve cleared up the last remaining difficulty as far as the committing of the murder goes.”

“Yes, I suppose we have,” Alec replied thoughtfully. “But it seems to me that we’ve rather got our work cut out there, haven’t we? I mean, it’s pretty well impossible for a man to get out of a room like that and leave everything locked up behind him, you know.”

“On the contrary, that’s just what it isn’t; because he did it. And it’s up to us to find out how.”

“Got any ideas about it?” Alec asked with interest.

“Not a one! At least, I can think of one very obvious way. We’ll test that first, at any rate. The library’s empty now, and I expect Jefferson will be pretty busy for the rest of the afternoon. We can sleuth away in peace.”

They turned their steps in the direction of the library.

“And what is the obvious solution to the library mystery?” Alec asked. “I’m blessed if I can see one.”

Roger looked at him curiously. “Can’t you really?” he said.

“No, I’m dashed if I can.”

“Well—what about a secret door, then?”

“Oh!” Alec observed blankly. “Yes, I didn’t seem to think of that.”

“It’s the only obvious way. And it’s not outside the possibilities by any means in an old house like this. Especially in the library, which hasn’t been pulled about so much as some of the other rooms.”

“That’s true enough,” said Alec, quite excitedly. “Roger, old sleuth, I really do believe you’re on the track of something at last.”

“Thanks,” Roger returned dryly. “I’ve been waiting for a remark like that for some hours.”

“Yes, but this really is interesting. Secret passages and—and hidden chambers and what-nots. Jolly romantic, and all that. I’m all in favour of unearthing it.”

“Well, here we are, and the scent ought to be strong. Let’s get down to it.”

“What shall we do?” asked Alec, staring curiously round the walls as if he expected the secret door to fly suddenly open if he looked hard enough.

“Well, first of all, I think we’d better examine this panelling. Now, let’s see; this wall where the fireplace is backs on to the drawing room, doesn’t it? And this one behind the safe on to the storeroom and a little bit of the hall. So that if there is a door or anything, the probability is that it will be in one of those two walls; it’s not likely to be in either of the outside ones. Well, I tell you what we’d better do. You examine the panelling in here, and I’ll scout round on the other side of the walls and see if I can spot anything there.”

“Right-ho,” said Alec, beginning to scrutinise the fireplace wall with great earnestness.

Roger made his way out into the hall and thence to the drawing room. The dividing wall between that room and the library was covered with paper, and one or two china cabinets stood against it. After a cursory peep or two behind these, Roger mentally wrote that wall off, at any rate, as blameless. The storeroom, similarly, was so full up with trunks and lumber as to be out of the question.

Roger returned to the library, to find Alec industriously tapping panels.

“I say,” said the latter, “several of these panels sound hollow.”

“Well, there’s no way through either into the drawing room or the storeroom, I’m convinced,” Roger remarked, closing the door behind him. “So that I don’t think it’s much use trying those walls haphazard.”

Alec paused. “What about a secret chamber, though? That wouldn’t necessarily need a way straight through. It might come out anywhere.”

“I thought of that. But the walls aren’t thick enough. They’re only about eighteen inches through. No, let’s go and have a look at it from the outside. There might possibly be some way into the garden.”

They went out through the open windows and contemplated the red-brick walls attentively.

“Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?” said Alec.

“I’m afraid not,” Roger admitted. “No, I fear that the secret-door theory falls to the ground. I thought it would somehow.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well, this house doesn’t belong to the Stanworths, you see, and they’ve only been here a month or so. I don’t suppose they’d know anything about secret passages, even if there were any.”

“No, but the other fellow might.”

“The murderer? It isn’t likely, is it?”

“I hate giving up the idea,” said Alec reluctantly. “After all, it’s the only possible explanation of his disappearance, as far as I can see.”

Roger suddenly smote his hands together. “By Jove! There’s one hope left. Idiot not to have thought of it before! The fireplace!”

“The fireplace?”

“Of course! That’s where most of these old houses have their secret hiding places. It will be there if anywhere.”

He hurried back into the library, Alec close at his heels. There he stopped suddenly short.

“Oh, Lord, I was forgetting that the blessed place had been bricked in so very thoroughly.” He gazed at the modern intrusion without enthusiasm. “That’s hopeless, I’m afraid.”

Alec looked thoughtfully round the room. “I don’t think we’ve examined these walls enough, you know,” he remarked hopefully. “There’s plenty of scope in this panelling really.”

Roger shook his head. “It’s just possible, but I’m very much afraid that——” He caught a sudden and violent frown from Alec, and broke off in mid-sentence. The door was opening softly.

The next moment Jefferson entered.

“Oh, hullo, you two,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. Can you manage to look after yourselves for the afternoon? Lady Stanworth and Mrs. Plant are in their rooms. Both naturally rather upset. And I’ve got to go into the town to see about a few things.”

“Oh, we’ll be all right,” Roger said easily. “Please don’t bother about us.”

Jefferson glanced round.

“Looking for a book?” he asked.

“No,” said Roger quickly. “As a matter of fact, I was studying this overmantel. I’m rather interested in that sort of thing—carving, and panelling, and old houses. This is really rather a wonderful room. What’s the date, do you know? Early Jacobean, I should say.”

“Somewhere about that,” Jefferson said indifferently. “I don’t know the actual date, I’m afraid.”

“Very interesting period,” Roger commented. “And there’s usually a priest-hole or something like that in houses built at that time. Anything of the sort here? There ought to be, you know.”

“Can’t say, I’m afraid,” Jefferson replied, a little impatiently. “Never heard of one, at any rate. Well, I must be getting along.”

As the door closed behind him, Roger turned to Alec.

“I didn’t expect anything, but I thought I might as well try it. He didn’t give anything away, though, whether he knew or not. On the whole, I should say that he didn’t know.”

“Why?”

“He was far too off-hand to be lying. If he wanted to put us off, he’d have elaborated somewhat, I fancy. Well, if we can’t find our secret door, we must try other means of providing an exit for our man. That leaves us with one door and three windows. We’ll try the door first.”

The door proved to be a massive piece of wood, with a large and efficient lock. Except where the socket in the lintel had been torn away in the efforts to force an entrance, it was still undamaged.

“Well, that’s out of the question, at any rate,” Roger said with decision. “I don’t see how anybody could possibly have got out through that and left it locked on the inside, with the key still in the lock. It might have been done with a pair of pliers, if the end of the key projected beyond the lock on the other side. But it doesn’t; so that’s out of the question. French windows next.”

These were of the ordinary pattern, with a handle which shot a bolt simultaneously at the top and bottom. In addition there were small brass bolts at the bottom and top, both of which had been fastened when the window was opened that morning.

“It looks out of the question to me,” Roger muttered. “It is out of the question. Even if he had been able to turn the handle (which he couldn’t possibly have done), he couldn’t have shot the bolts as well.”

“I’m blessed if he could,” said Alec with conviction.

Roger turned away.

“Then that leaves these two windows. I don’t see how anyone could have left this little lattice one closed behind him. What about the sash one? That looks more hopeful.”

He climbed up on the window seat and examined the fastening attentively.

“Any luck?” asked Alec.

Roger stepped heavily on to the floor again. “I regret to have to confess myself baffled,” he said disappointedly. “There’s an anti-burglar fitting on that window which would absolutely prevent the thing being fastened from the outside. I’m beginning to think the fellow must have been a wizard in a small way.”

“It seems to me,” said Alec weightily, “that if the chap couldn’t have got out, as we appear to have proved, then he could never have been in here at all. In other words, he doesn’t exist, and old Stanworth did commit suicide, after all.”

“But I tell you that Stanworth can’t have committed suicide,” said Roger petulantly. “There’s far too much evidence against it.”

Alec threw himself into a chair. “Is there, though?” he asked argumentatively. “As you put it, it’s certainly consistent with murder. But it’s equally consistent with suicide. Aren’t you rather losing sight of that in your anxiety to make a murder of it? Besides, don’t forget that your motive has fallen to the ground since the safe was opened. There wasn’t a robbery here last night, after all.”

Roger was roaming restlessly about the room. At Alec’s last words he paused in his stride and looked at his companion with some irritation.

“Oh, don’t be childish, Alec,” he said sharply. “Money and jewels aren’t the only things that can be robbed. The motive still holds perfectly good if we’ve got to have a motive. It was robbery of something else; that’s all. But why stick to robbery? Make it revenge, hatred, self-protection, anything you like, but take it from me that Stanworth was murdered. The evidence is not equally consistent with suicide. Think it over for yourself and you’ll see; I can’t bother to go through it all again. And if we can’t find the way the chap got out, that’s because we’re a pair of idiots and can’t see what must be lying under our noses, that’s all.” And he resumed his stride again.

“Humph!” said Alec incredulously.

“Door, window, window, window,” Roger muttered to himself. “It must be one of those four. There’s simply no other way.”

He wandered impatiently from one to the other, trying desperately to put himself in the place of the criminal. What would he have done?

With some ceremony Alec filled and lighted his pipe. When it was in full blast he leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to rest approvingly on the cool greens of the gardens outside.

“Life’s too short,” he remarked lazily. “If it really was a clear case of murder, I’d be on the trail as strenuously as anyone. But really, old man, when you come to consider—calmly and sanely, I mean—how extraordinarily little you’ve got to go on and how you’re twisting the most ordinary things, why I think even you will admit in a few weeks’ time that when all’s said and done we——”

“Alec!”

Something in Roger’s tone caused Alec to turn round in his chair and look at him. He was leaning out of the lattice window, apparently intent on the garden outside.

“Well?” said Alec tolerantly. “What is it now?”

“If you come here, Alec,” said Roger, very gently, “I’ll show you how the murderer got away last night.”

CHAPTER XIII.
Mr. Sheringham Investigates a Footprint

“Show me what?” Alec exclaimed, bounding out of his chair.

“How the murderer escaped,” Roger repeated, turning and smiling happily at his dumb-founded accomplice. “It’s extraordinarily simple, really. That’s why we never spotted it. Have you ever noticed, Alec, that it’s always the simple things of life—plans, inventions, what you like—that are the most effective? Take, for instance——”

Alec seized his too voluble friend by the shoulder and shook him violently.

“How did the chap escape?” he demanded.

Roger pointed to the window through which he had been leaning.

“There!” he said simply.

“Yes, but how do you know?” cried the exasperated Alec.

“Oh, is that what you meant? Come, friend Alec.” Roger took his fellow-sleuth by the arm and pointed triumphantly to the window-sill. On the surface of the white paint were a few faint scratches. “You see those? Now look at that!” And he indicated something on the flower bed beneath. “I said it must be lying under our noses all the time,” he added complacently.

Alec leaned out of the window and looked at the bed. Just below the window was an unmistakable footprint, the toe pointing towards the window.

“You said escaped, didn’t you?” he asked, withdrawing his head.

“I did, Alexander.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you and all that,” said Alec, in a tone that curiously belied his words, “but nobody escaped this way. Someone got in. If you look again, carefully this time, you’ll see that the toe is pointing towards the window; not the heel. That means that somebody stepped from the ground to the window-ledge, not vice versa.”