The Case of the Black Twenty-Two

by

Brian Flynn

Grosset & Dunlap

New York

First published in the United States, January, 1929

Second printing, February, 1929

Copyright, 1929, by Macrae Smith Company

Contents

CHAPTER I.
Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission

The fact that it was an unusually sunny morning for an English summer day had not put Peter Daventry in the mood that it undoubtedly should have done. A riotous evening—during which he had dined not wisely but too well with a number of men who had been at Oxford with him—is not perhaps the best preparation for work on the following day, and Peter heartily cursed the relentless and inexorable fate that had made him junior partner of “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Solicitors.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window of his room, gazing disconsolately at the street below.

“Cornhill!” he muttered. “And it might be anywhere else for all it means to me, or for all I care. It’s a dull old world nowadays and devilish difficult to get thrills out of a business like this. After a night with the lads it gets me ‘on the raw’ more than ever.”

He looked down at London scurrying and hurrying. Men, women, young and old, treading their way quickly, decisively and imperturbably on the various errands and ventures that Life had chosen for them. “Poor devils!” he thought. “Day in and day out the same old grind! I sometimes wonder how they stand it. I certainly don’t know how I do.” He walked back to the chair by his desk, carefully selected a cigarette and pressed the bell.

A middle-aged, black-coated clerk appeared in the doorway.

“You rang, Mr. Daventry? You want me?”

“Oh, no, Plunkett! Not for a moment! What on earth gave you that extraordinary idea?”

“The bell——” He indicated the table with a sort of hopeless resignation.

“Merely a matter of ‘physical jerks’ on my part, Plunkett. I’ve been standing on my head on the desk, and in the process I inadvertently butted the bell and caused you——”

Plunkett smiled feebly. He was the kind of man that always did—thirty-five years’ service for the firm had made him afraid to do anything too vigorously—even to a smile. But he knew Peter Daventry and knew his little whims and ways—“he will have his little joke,” he would inform his friends and acquaintances, “and till he’s had it, it’s best to lie low and keep quiet.” It will be observed, therefore, that he had not encountered “Brer Rabbit.”

“You wanted——?”

“This morning’s post, Plunkett! Neither more nor less! Stay though—when you bring it in, you might also bring me all the papers and correspondence relating to the Langley Case.” He drew at his cigarette and watched the smoke rising. Then smiled. “Breach of promise is a God-send, Plunkett! Manna from the heights of Heaven.”

Plunkett stared at him it might be said, sorrowfully—and withdrew unobtrusively. At his second appearance he placed the unopened letters and the required papers on Peter’s desk.

“Thank you, Plunkett!”

“Thank you, Mr. Daventry. Mr. Linnell asked me to tell you he would like to see you in his room as soon as possible, sir. At your convenience that is to say, sir.”

Peter ran the paper-knife along the back of an envelope and nodded acquiescence. “All right, Plunkett. Tell Mr. Linnell I’ll blow along to him shortly.”

Mr. Merryweather, the founder of the firm, had been gathered to his fathers seven years before the date of the opening of this history; but his name had been retained. As Peter remarked to his more intimate friends, “the name of ‘Merryweather’ had a cheerful ring about it and therefore was worth keeping!”

David Linnell was a medium-sized, clean-shaven, spare man of fifty-eight years. He had been born in Lancashire and was a firm believer in the men of the Red Rose. He fully subscribed to the theory that “what Manchester thinks to-day—the rest of the world thinks to-morrow.” In conjunction with the departed Merryweather, he had built up an eminently satisfactory business in London, had attracted to it a sound and rapidly-growing “clientèle,” and when the question arose of Peter Daventry coming in as a partner, he had seen with all a Northerner’s shrewdness and acumen that this young Oxonian would bring to the firm new business and new clients from a hitherto unexplored source.

“Good morning, Peter!” he said as Daventry entered his room.

“Good morning! Plunkett tells me you want to see me.”

Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair beside him.

“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P. Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately.

“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?”

“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?”

Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall Street—I fancy he’s a widower.”

“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.”

“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. “Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?”

“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a collector——”

“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and Income Tax.”

“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be termed, paramount historical interest and association.”

Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better! Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!”

Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette. “We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured.

“And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused. Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. Stewart, Peter! Note the name—he has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.”

He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to Peter.

“Read it!” he said authoritatively.

Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity.

Assynton Lodge,

Assynton, Berkshire,

June 7th, 192–.

Sir,

I am a man of few words. Your firm has been highly recommended to me by Colonel Leach-Fletcher, for whom you have acted many times in the past in matters of extreme discretion. He speaks in the highest possible terms of your integrity and efficiency. For reasons of my own I wish you to act for me at the Sale taking place on the 10th inst. at “Day, Forshaw and Palmers’.” You will purchase for me the articles scheduled in their catalogue as follows:

(No. 37) “Collar of Pearls.”

(No. 38) “Antique Tapestry Fire-screen.”

(No. 39) “Rosary of Amber Beads.”

“all having been indisputably the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

The purchases completed, you will bring them or cause them to be brought to the above address at your earliest convenience, when your own account will be settled by

Yours faithfully,

Laurence P. Stewart.

David Linnell, Esq.,

Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.

Peter looked up at his companion. “H’m,” he remarked, “seems to know what he wants. No limit I suppose, as to price?”

“None! As far as I can see! He simply says, ‘You will purchase——’ ” Peter glanced at the letter again.

“And we charge him what we like!”

“Money’s no object to Stewart, Peter,” replied Linnell. “If he’s set his mind upon getting the three articles in question—nothing short of a miracle will stop him.”

“Why is he employing a firm of solicitors for a job of this kind?” asked Peter.

“Can’t say! But I suggest Colonel Leach-Fletcher has impressed him that we are thoroughly ‘safe and sound’—and he’s out taking no risks.”

“Very possibly you’re right,” Peter commented. “I certainly can’t think of any other reason. Have you seen a catalogue of the sale?”

“I’ve sent for one. Immediately upon receipt of this letter! Collins has gone round to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ offices. He should be back very shortly!”

Peter walked to the window and looked out.

“Here is Collins,” he said, turning to his senior, “with catalogue complete.”

In a few minutes they were examining it. It was headed as follows:

“At Messrs. Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ Rooms,

The Hanover Galleries, W.1.

On Friday, June 10th, 192–, at one o’clock

precisely.

Sale of Old English and French Furniture,

Pictures, Porcelain, Jewelry, and

Objects of Art,

Formerly the property of Lord Clavering,

deceased, late of Clavering Court,

Warwickshire.”

Linnell and Peter ran their eyes down its contents. They were many and varied. Linnell read them quickly. “A William and Mary Marqueterie Walnut Cabinet, a Chippendale Wine-Cooler, a pair of Boulle Cabinets of Regency Design, Portraits by Hoppner, Paintings by De Ribera, Romney, Van Der Velde and Sir Peter Lely, Derby and Nantgarw Porcelain, Chinese Porcelain of the Sung and Ming periods, Jewelry, a Cromwellian chalice with the Hull hall-mark, a George II octofoil salver, a Georgian Epergne, an unusually large King’s Pattern service, several Sèvres vases—here we are, Peter, 37, 38 and 39 . . . h’m—h’m . . . exactly as described by our client in his letter.” He looked up from the catalogue.

Peter pointed to a sentence at the end of the list. “May be viewed the two days preceding the Sale from 10 to 5 o’clock. That’s to-day and to-morrow. What do you say to me running along and having a glance at the particular stuff Stewart wants?”

“Just what I was on the point of suggesting, Peter. You’ve taken the very words from my mouth.”

“To-day or to-morrow?”

“Please yourself—but it’s a nice morning—why not take advantage of it—have an early lunch and pop up West afterwards?”

“A pleasing prospect,” exclaimed Peter. “Life seems a little brighter.”

Linnell smiled—then waved him away. “That’s settled then.”

He strolled back to his own room and looked at his watch. “Don’t see any just cause or impediment why I shouldn’t get along at once and see about that lunch,” he said to himself. “Plunkett!” He went to his door and called down the corridor.

“Yes, Mr. Daventry.” Plunkett appeared in the distance and laboriously made his way to answer to the call.

“I’m going out, Plunkett. Mr. Linnell will be here if anything should be wanted. That’s all. You needn’t trouble to come in.”

Plunkett bowed his understanding and reëntered his daily cell.

Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously.

Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting discrimination.

“A Dry Martini, Gustave.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the Dry Martini!

Peter raised it to his lips—after all Life wasn’t so very unsatisfactory when there was good food and welcome drink to be had. He sipped his cocktail appraisingly. The place was comparatively empty—it was early. At the next table sat a man and woman. They were talking eagerly and with much animation. The man was doing most of it, with the woman listening attentively and punctuating his remarks at rapid and regular intervals with a curious little vigorous inclination of her head. Peter fell to wondering about them—“a lower middle-class couple on a shopping expedition” was his verdict—arrived at simultaneously with the advent of Gustave and the soup. The fish quickly followed, and he was awaiting the coming of the “appetizing Aylesbury” as he termed it to himself when a familiar voice broke on his ears.

“Hullo, Daventry! What’s brought you up this end so early in the morning?”

Peter looked up. Then he grinned cheerfully.

“Sit down, Marriott! An unexpected pleasure!”

The newcomer sank into the proffered seat, and languidly stretched out a hand for the menu. Peter had met him several times in the Law Courts and had dined with him two or three times recently.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marriott. “What brings you up here at this time of day?”

“Business, my boy, purely business. Give Gustave your order.”

Marriott smiled, rattled off his desires, and turned again to Peter.

“Glad to see an improvement in you. The other day you were talking about ‘chucking’ it all and going out to ‘God’s own Country’ or somewhere.”

“Wish I could, Marriott, but I can’t. I’m afraid the improvement about which you are babbling so delightfully will be short-lived. These peas are really excellent—you’ll enjoy them!”

“Good! Any news of importance?”

“Only that the next Coal Strike is expected to last twenty-two years or thereabouts.”

“Really,” grinned Marriott. “Tell me something fresh. Say Queen Anne’s dead!”

Peter pushed back his plate with an air of complete satisfaction and made a reply that seemed to leap to his tongue without his brain having undergone any preliminary process of thinking. It seemed to be entirely spontaneous and at the same time to him as he sat there, peculiarly appropriate. It fitted in with the morning so happily.

“So’s Mary, Queen of Scots!” He blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling. As he spoke, there happened to be a lull pervading the whole room. A lull that was violently and almost instantaneously shattered! The man at the next table turned sharply as the words tingled through the air, and as he turned, with his body for the brief moment excitedly uncontrolled, his arm abruptly swept the cruet from the table to the floor.

Two waiters dashed heroically to the work of rescue and salvage. The culprit muttered a few words of apology. The lady was heard to remark something about the bad luck attendant upon spilling the salt, smiled upon the two diligent waiters, but flashed a quick look at her companion. It was a look that possessed more than one quality. It contained a suggestion of warning, a hint of rebuke and a touch of fierce annoyance. The man sat sullenly in his seat, and Peter’s eyes never left his face. For exactly what reason he didn’t quite know—he felt almost compelled to it. His senses seemed to be jingling a refrain to him. It rang repeatedly through his brain and its purpose was, “Well—I’m damned.” At the same time he tried to persuade himself that it was just an ordinary case of carelessness and that he had drawn liberally upon his imagination to connect the incident with the words he had used.

“What’s amiss, Daventry?” broke in Marriott, cutting his reverie abruptly short. “You look as though you have seen a ghost!”

Peter jerked himself back to the normal with a tremendous effort.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “That little incident surprised me—that was all.”

But his eyes strayed back to the other table, and as they did so the eyes of the man there met his and held them for a brief moment truculently and challengingly. The woman appeared to be urging her companion to do something that he apparently did not favor. He shook his head doubtfully, as though he were questioning the wisdom of what she said. Peter turned to Marriott. “I’ll be getting along now, if you don’t mind. Gustave! Bring me my bill! What’s the damage?”

“I’m nearly through myself,” responded Marriott. “I’m coming along too! Which way are you going?”

“Up West. And you aren’t, probably! Thank you, Gustave!”

“No! I’m bound in the other direction—you’ve said it! Cheerio!”

Peter waved a hand to his retreating figure and collected his change. As he did so, the couple from the other table made their way past his table on their journey out. The man was in front—the woman followed closely on his heels. As they passed, for some reason almost unknown to himself, Peter strained his ears to catch, if at all possible, any stray fragment of their conversation. He was successful. The woman was speaking in a low-toned voice, but it was not too low to carry to his ears.

“Take my advice,” Peter heard her say—“let’s go to-morrow—not to-day.”

“Can’t see it makes much difference”—her companion’s reply floated back to him. They passed down the restaurant—out of sight!

Peter rose to his feet and crammed his hat on his head.

“I’m a silly ass,” he said to himself. “Letting my imagination run riot—magnifying trivial incidents—giving way to distorted ideas.”

He hailed his second taxi-cab that day, and settled down comfortably. “Best thing I can do,” he thought, “is to go and have that look at those antiquities I’m going to buy on Friday.”

Wherein he erred—for he never bought them after all.

CHAPTER II.
Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39

When Peter entered the Galleries there were comparatively few people present. A knot of interested art-enthusiasts had gathered in front of a superb “Reynolds” dated 1765. It was described as the “Portrait of a Lady.” She held a lute in her hand and wore a satin dress cut low and edged with pearls. Although Peter was no expert in these matters, it did not take him long to realize that he was gazing at a masterpiece. But he passed on. The Galleries held other attractions that interested him more. Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39 were easily to be found. The three objects that had brought him to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ almost jostled each other on the left of the room as you entered. The screen stood on the floor, the Pearl Collar and Rosary lay on a small Sheraton Inlaid Mahogany side table right against it. Their only visible protection from covetous hands was a rail that barriered them from the public, about four feet high. But as Peter looked at the three things for which he had been commissioned by Mr. Laurence P. Stewart, he became acutely aware and very definitely conscious, that he in his turn was being watched. Two men of medium height were lounging near . . . their profession was obvious to him. He had come into contact with their kind too many times before in the course of his own business not to recognize them when he saw them. “Plain-clothes,” he told himself. He walked across to the barrier and took a close inspection of the objects in which he was interested. As he did so he fancied the two men edged a little more closely to him. But he realized, upon looking round, that with the exception of the men to whom reference has been made, he was the only person in that particular part of the room; hence their keener interest in his movements. “Hang it all,” he said to himself—“this shadowing business gets on my nerves—I’ll establish my ‘bona-fides.’ ”

He walked back to the entrance to the Galleries. A middle-aged man was superintending the transportation of what was evidently a valuable picture. He paused in his directions as Peter came up. “Anything I can do for you, sir?” Peter caught him by the arm.

“Yes. Look here! Here’s my card! I’m Daventry—of ‘Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.’ I want to examine items Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in the published catalogue of your sale on Friday.”

The man scratched his chin—thoughtfully. Then looked again at the proffered card.

“Young Mr. Forshaw’s here, sir. You’re Mr. Daventry, I think you said, sir.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll tell the young governor, sir! Can I say you’ve a mind to purchase?”

“Oh yes!” cut in Peter impetuously. “I’m representing my firm on behalf of a very——”

He checked himself—suddenly. It occurred to him that there was absolutely no need to mention Stewart’s name at this juncture and perhaps more than one excellent reason for withholding it. He thought of Stewart’s phrase concerning discretion.

“Very good, sir,” said the man. “I’ll bring young Mr. Forshaw along to you in half a minute.”

He was as good as his word. A young man bustled up, wiping his hands upon a duster.

“Mr. Daventry?” queried Forshaw. Peter bowed!

“You wished to have a look at something included in to-morrow’s sale? What is it exactly?”

“It’s not an ‘it,’ ” responded Peter jocularly. And then with scant regard for the inclination of the verb “to be”—“it’s a ‘them.’ ”

“More than one, sir?”

“To be precise—three—the numbers are 37, 38 and 39 in your catalogue.”

“Come this way.” He escorted Peter to the handrail from which he had so recently come. Then slipped underneath with ease and handed him the Collar and the Rosary. It was impossible for Peter to form any adequate idea of the value of either. His experience of jewels was very limited, and the Rosary appeared to him to possess little value apart from its historical association. However, for the sake of appearances he feigned to make a very careful study of each.

“Aren’t your people afraid of having some of these things stolen?” he ventured to Forshaw.

“We take certain precautions, Mr. Daventry,” was the answer. “Close watch is maintained all day and all night. Anybody attempting any ‘jiggery-pokery’ would get the surprise of his life.”

Peter glanced at the two representatives of the Law. They lounged in a corner. Forshaw followed the direction of his eyes and smiled. “Exactly! And well armed too!” He replaced the Pearl Collar and the Rosary as Peter handed them across to him. Then lifted up the screen and handed it over.

“I see that you advertise these three articles as having belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots,” remarked Peter.

“That is so!” replied Forshaw. “They formed part of the late Lord Clavering’s collection. Had been in his family, I believe, for over two hundred years. No doubt whatever on that point,” he concluded decisively.

Peter looked at the screen with some interest. It stood approximately from three and a half to four feet high he estimated—on a carved-wood pedestal. Upon the tapestry, which was covered with thick glass, he could see a number of brightly colored beads. They were, to all appearances, arranged in the form of letters. Peter inspected them carefully. Then quickly grasped their meaning. The beads formed words and the words were—

“JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.”

In the top left-hand corner of the tapestry was worked the Scots Queen’s Royal Lion and in the right could be discerned the “fleur-de-lis.” The corners at the bottom showed the Leopards and Lilies of England.

“Of more ornament than use, I’m afraid, Mr. Daventry,” said Forshaw with a smile.

“I agree.” He bent down to examine it more closely.

“I expect some pretty brisk bidding for that on Friday! Just the kind of thing to appeal to a collector of antiques.”

“I suppose so,” replied Peter. He handed it back to its temporary guardian.

“Thank you—Mr. Forshaw. I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure, for showing me round as you have. I’ll be getting along now.”

Then he was suddenly impelled to ask a question. “I suppose a good many people have had a good look at these three articles already?”

“On the contrary—you’re the first, Mr. Daventry. That is, of course, up to the moment. They haven’t been on show very long.”

Peter shook hands and laughed. “My remarks seem to miss fire every time.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.” He passed by the middle-aged man at the entrance and pushed something into his hand. The man looked at it and smiled—then put his finger to his forehead in salute.

“Thank you, sir. You’re a gentleman. Still—there was no necessity——”

Peter waved a sympathetic hand and departed.

Half an hour later saw him back at the office in Cornhill.

“Well?” said Linnell as he entered the room, “everything satisfactory?”

Peter sat on the corner of the table and swung his leg.

“I went up there, as we arranged, and I had a look at the stuff we’ve been asked to get.” He paused.

“Yes?” interrogated Linnell. “What did you think of it?”

“Hard to say. The Pearl Collar is really magnificent, and the screen I should say will prove a tremendous attraction for the ‘genus’ collector—the species that we are deputed to represent—the Rosary, in my opinion, won’t fetch anything like so much.”

“H’m,” said Linnell reflectively. He traced a pattern on his blotting-paper with his pen. Then he looked up at his companion.

“Has it struck you, Daventry—that we may possibly be running a big risk over this business?”

Peter looked startled. “How do you mean?”

Linnell opened a drawer and handed over a letter. “Supposing that letter hadn’t come from Stewart; supposing that signature—purporting to be Stewart’s——was a forgery?”

Peter’s eyes opened even wider. “That’s interesting. Go on!”

Linnell from Lancashire went on. And emphasized his points with quick jerks of the head. “We are instructed to purchase! That is to say Stewart in no way restricts us. He mentions no limit. Supposing we pay, for argument’s sake, £25,000—thinking we’re acting for Stewart—and then Stewart repudiates ever having commissioned us! And then, after that, we find our £25,000 worth of stuff is worth say—only £15,000. Where are we then, Daventry? I’ve inflated the figures purposely.”

“Down the mine, Daddy,” declared Peter. “But what’s the Big Idea—who would ever——?”

“Who would? Seems to me Day, Forshaw and Palmers might find it a very healthy proposition,” replied Linnell.

“And that’s what you really think?” asked Peter incredulously.

“No—I don’t!” said Linnell grimly. “But I’m damned well going to find out.”

“How? Go and see Stewart?” Peter was all alertness now.

“No! I’ve telegraphed to him—this morning. The answer should be here at any moment! That should be sufficient.”

He looked at his watch.

Peter selected a cigarette—then handed his case to Linnell.

“Thanks! I don’t mind if I do.”

Before Peter had had time to take his eyes from the match with which he lit his companion’s cigarette——there was a tap at the door—Plunkett entered. Linnell tore open the telegram that was handed to him. Then he smiled. Peter looked over his shoulder. Then he smiled in his turn, and read aloud what he saw.

“Say! What the hell’s biting you—when I say Buy—then Buy. Got that? Stewart.”

That was the intelligent rendering of the message. A message which looked and sounded even cruder and terser in the unpunctuated word-arrangement of telegrams.

Linnell’s smile developed into a ringing laugh. “I’ve been barking up the wrong tree, after all, Peter. Still—one can’t be too careful. You’ll go along then on Friday and——”

Plunkett reappeared in the doorway. “Another telegram, sir.” Linnell looked surprised. Then read the second message.

“Say—you don’t look before you leap—you take a magnifying glass. Same name as before.”

“Mr. Stewart has a decided sense of humor,” commented David Linnell. “But I’d sooner he took liberties with my ‘amour propre’ than with my pocket.”

Peter laughed.

“Some people wouldn’t,” continued Linnell, determined to justify himself, “but I would. And even if he is a millionaire—to put four words where he could have used one—should have used one in fact, is just a piece of reckless and shameless waste—and that’s all there is to it.”

He turned to Daventry, proudly conscious that he was safeguarding an important principle.

“I think I’ll go myself and have a glance at the stuff to-morrow, Peter—after all he’s a millionaire—and business is business. Where did you lunch?”

“At the ‘Violette,’ ” was the reply. “And, by the by, whatever you do—don’t upset the cruet.”

“What do you mean?” Linnell looked at him curiously.

Peter recounted the incident that had occurred earlier in the day.

“Probably quite an accident,” he concluded, “and a coincidence—still it took my breath away, as it were, for just the moment.”

Linnell thought for a moment or two. “Probably nothing in it, Peter. You had the thing on your mind and were over-imaginative. What are you doing to-night? Anything special?”

“I’m dining at the Club. And I may have a rubber or two afterwards.”

“Good. I sha’n’t be in, in the morning. I may run down to Berkshire this evening, and in any case I’ll go straight on to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ first thing to-morrow. I’m really very anxious to see the actual objects of this extraordinary commission of ours!”

But just as Peter was destined never to buy them, so Linnell was fated not to see them on the morrow.

For when he arrived at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ next morning he found a condition of extreme excitement and agitation. Detective-Inspector Goodall was in charge of the case—a case that had cost Day, Forshaw and Palmers Schedule Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in their sale catalogue, and their night-watchman his life. Linnell’s hand shook when he heard what had happened. The conviction came to him that he was connected with the affair. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he went in.

CHAPTER III.
The Hanover Galleries Murder

Just inside the room he was stopped. Two six-feet members of the Metropolitan Police barred his further entrance.

“Sorry, sir,” said one of them, “but our orders are to admit nobody.”

Linnell paused—then under the influence of a sudden idea—he produced his card.

“Give that to the Inspector who has the case in hand, will you?” he said; “it’s just possible I may be able to help him.” He looked straight at the officer.

“Very well, sir,” rejoined the latter. “I’ll see what I can do for you.” He spoke to his colleague. “You stay here—I’ll go and have a word with the Chief about this gentleman.”

He was soon back. “Detective-Inspector Goodall will see you, sir! This way, if you please!”

He piloted Linnell down the lengthy room. A group of men were standing at the far end. Goodall was in the center of the group. Linnell saw a clean-shaven man of medium height and stoutish build—dressed in a double-breasted blue serge suit. He awaited Linnell’s approach with uplifted eyebrows.

“Mr. Linnell?” he interrogated—quickly and decisively. “Of——?”

“Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Cornhill,” replied Linnell—to the point as always. “I am the senior partner of the firm.”

“You have important information for me, I understand,” cut in Goodall.

“Information,” corrected Linnell. “You must be the judge of its importance.”

“Well, I’m listening, Mr. Linnell. Go ahead!”

“Before I tell you what I know—would you, in your turn, be good enough to tell me if the rumors that are traveling round outside—are correct? Are you investigating a case of murder and robbery?”

“I am! A robbery has taken place here since shutting-up hours last evening—and a poor devil of a watchman been bashed on the head—he’s as dead as mutton. Where do you come in?”

“Maybe not at all, Inspector. But my firm had a rather peculiar commission entrusted to it yesterday in relation to the sale that was to have taken place here to-morrow. And it struck me when I heard——”

“Aren’t you a bit imaginative, Mr. Linnell?” demanded Goodall. “How could anything you—still—let’s hear all about it.”

“I was going to,” remonstrated Linnell mildly. “We were commissioned to buy three articles that were advertised as having belonged to Mary, Queen of——”

“What?” blazed Goodall. “The devil you were. They’re the only three articles we can trace to have been stolen. Who commissioned you?”

Although Linnell was really surprised at this announcement—yet in one way he was not. His mind seemed prepared for it—some sixth and subtle sense had been pounding at his brain ever since his arrival at this place that Stewart’s instructions and the tragedy that confronted him were in some manner connected with each other. It was the shadowy belief in this that had prompted him to try to interview the Inspector.

“Mr. Laurence P. Stewart of Assynton, Berkshire,” he replied quietly.

“The millionaire?” exclaimed a tall man from the group.

“Yes,” said Linnell.

“You know this man Stewart, Mr. Day?” asked Goodall, turning to the speaker.

“Only by reputation,” rejoined Day. “It’s the American millionaire—you must have heard of him, Inspector! Forshaw here, met him once or twice over in the States—I never have.”

“That’s so,” intervened Forshaw with a positive movement of the head. “I met him in New York a year or two after the War.”

“Go on, Mr. Linnell,” said the Inspector. “You said his instructions to your firm were ‘peculiar’—that was the adjective you used. I reckon you’ve some more to tell us.”

Here young Forshaw broke in. “The gentleman who called here yesterday—a Mr. Daventry—he was a representative of your firm, I think?”

“Quite correct,” affirmed Linnell. “My partner! My only partner, I should have said.”

Goodall swung round on to Forshaw Junior. “Called here yesterday? What about?” he grumbled in his deep voice.

“The Mary, Queen of Scots’ stuff.” Goodall looked a trifle annoyed.

“You didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you?”

“I simply haven’t had a chance yet,” came the reply with just a hint of rebellious obstinacy, “you’ve been doing best part of the talking. I should have told you though before you’d finished.” Forshaw shrugged his shoulders.

Goodall glared—then reverted to Linnell. “Fire away, Mr. Linnell. What exactly were your instructions?”

“Yesterday morning I received a letter from the gentleman I just mentioned—Laurence P. Stewart—authorizing me to buy the three articles that you have just informed me have been stolen—er—numbers 37, 38 and 39 in the sale catalogue.”

“Well?” rapped Goodall—“I can’t see anything . . .”

Linnell went on. “The whole thing was peculiar in this respect. I was entirely unacquainted with the gentleman—the commission was right out of our usual type of business—no price was mentioned—I was given carte blanche—I know absolutely nothing about this particular species of—er—antiques—and what is more”—here he paused and looked Goodall straight in the eyes—“I had no absolute proof that the affair was genuine.”

Goodall nodded approvingly. “You took steps, of course, to——”

“I wired to Berkshire and the reply was satisfactory—at all events——”

“What reply did you get?” Goodall was showing signs of impatience.

“It came by telegram—you shall see it. It’s at my office.”

“You were satisfied?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“One little point, Mr. Linnell, before you proceed any farther. Why did Mr. Stewart select your firm to carry out this commission? Any idea?”

“He explained that in his letter. He said he had been told of us by a very respected and esteemed client of ours—a Colonel Leach-Fletcher.”

“Was that true?” demanded Goodall.

“Colonel Leach-Fletcher is a client of ours—certainly—I can say nothing as to the alleged recommendation. You can see the letter with the telegram.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“Not very much. The telegram reassured me—Mr. Daventry, my partner, came and had a look over here yesterday—and I had come with similar purpose this morning—only to find this trouble.”

“How did you know, Mr. Linnell?”—Goodall’s voice sounded very distinctly, almost as though he were launching an accusation—“that these three particular objects had been stolen? It seems to me——”

“I didn’t,” replied Linnell in an almost aggrieved manner. “I thought you understood that when I entered. I had no knowledge of it whatever. I only obeyed my instincts.”

“H’m,” grunted the Inspector. “Yes, Doctor?” This last remark was addressed to a gentleman who had come authoritatively down the room.

“The poor fellow’s quite dead, of course. Been dead, I should say, about eight hours when I examined him. Four particularly savage blows on the skull I think—part of the brain actually protruding—whoever did it—meant doing it.”

“Struck from behind, do you think, Doctor?” queried Goodall.

“Very probably—the parietal bone is badly smashed.”

Goodall turned to Day. “What time did this night-watchman come on duty, Mr. Day?”

“At midnight, Inspector! The first watchman is on duty from six o’clock—when we close—till twelve, when poor Mason relieved him. I’ve sent for Druce—that’s the other watchman—he should be along here in a few moments.”

“Well, this poor fellow in the other room can’t tell us anything—so we shall have to rely on Druce. I hope he will be of some help.”

“Was he found dead in this room, Inspector?” asked Linnell—“or——”

“Just over there”—pointed Goodall to a spot about a dozen yards away—“right in front of the handrail. Doctor Archer examined him first down there—then we had him taken into Mr. Day’s private office.”

“Where the rug is?” interrogated Linnell. He looked at the rug on the floor.

“That’s it,” answered Goodall. “There’s a nasty mess underneath—that’s why the rug’s there!”

“How did they get in and out?”

“Well, Mr. Linnell—as to that—they got out with the night-watchman’s keys—we can’t find them anywhere—how they got in is a matter of conjecture—that’s what I want to see this other watchman, Druce, about.”

“But I presume you’ve formed some conclusions? There must be some——”

“There’s very little,” replied Goodall. “Very little indeed. No forced entrance at all. Not even a foot mark or finger-print. Three articles stolen—a night-watchman dead on the floor. Motive—burglary! Which makes the murder a subordinate factor in the crime. Which makes the murdered man almost impersonal! And I’m supposed to put my hands on this murderer in less than twenty-four hours—and that out of a little matter of six millions of people.”

“You’re supposed——”

Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’ ”

Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed. That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no mean antagonist he felt sure.

Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he announced.

“Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened perceptibly.

Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had a somewhat unsettling effect upon him.

“You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced Goodall.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you worked here?”

Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?”

“Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer, “six years last Easter.”

Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given satisfaction.”

A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes.

“What time were you relieved last night?” he asked.

“About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.”

“Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?”

“It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?”

“He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the night.”

Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp.

“Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?”

Druce shook his head. “No, sir—nothing.” This decisively! “He ’ad a joke on his lips, sir, when he came up the stairs with me—just as he usually had. Told me I could go ’ome and do some gardenin’—before I went to ‘Kip.’ Twelve o’clock at night, sir, that was.”

“You went downstairs to open the doors to let him in?”

“Yes, sir. He always give three loud sharp knocks.”

“And you noticed nothing then—or at any other time during the evening that you regarded as unusual or abnormal? Think carefully!”

Druce pondered over the question. “No—I can’t say as how”—then a sudden reminiscence seemed to awake in him—“well, sir—now you mention it, there was an incident, so to speak, when Jim Mason come to the—nothing at all important, sir——” he spoke deprecatingly.

“Let’s hear it,” rapped Goodall. “Every word of it!”

Every vestige of blood went from the night-watchman’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before, sir,” he muttered, “I hope there’s no harm done——”

“Let’s have it,” bellowed Goodall, “every second’s of importance!”

“Well, sir,” said Druce—“it was like this. When I ’eard Jim Mason knock—he give his three knocks just as usual—I went downstairs to let ’im in. When I opened the door he was standin’ there just in the ordinary way—when a female comes up to us. Wanted to know what time the Galleries opened the next morning—that was all she enquired, sir! I told her ‘ten o’clock.’ Then she pointed down the street and asked if that way was the right direction for the Marble Arch.”

“And was it?” snapped Goodall eagerly.

“Yes,” said Druce with some surprise. “That’s so, sir!”

“What did Mason do while this conversation was taking place?”

“Mason, sir? He showed ’er the way the same as wot I did.”

“Of course he did,” cut in Goodall with decision. “And I expect she wanted a deal of showing, didn’t she?”

“She did seem a bit mazed-like,” murmured Druce.

“I’ll warrant she did,” said the Inspector. “Just long enough for the murderer to slip in behind your backs and up the stairs in front of Mason.”

Druce went goggle-eyed. “Gosh! Who’d ’ave thought of that?”

“Not you, evidently,” returned Goodall. “If you had have done, your mate might still be alive. It’s no use, though, wasting time on regrets or recriminations.”

He stepped into the private room used by Day as his office.

“Is this door locked of an evening when the place closes?” he asked.

“Always,” responded Day. “Or, at least, it should be!”

“Who was in charge here yesterday evening?” queried the Inspector swiftly.

“I was.” Young Forshaw stepped forward.

“Did you lock this door when you left?”

“To the best of my memory—yes. But it’s a mechanical sort of job—you know, Inspector—the kind of thing you do so often from mere force of habit—that the doing it leaves no very clear impression on your mind.”

Goodall nodded in acceptance. He knew exactly what the speaker meant.

“Still,” went on Forshaw, “I’m fairly certain I did it.” He thought it over carefully.

“How many keys are there?” broke in the Inspector.

Day took it upon himself to answer. “Four. Each of the partners has one—and Ronald Forshaw here also. He’s more often in charge here of an evening than anybody—he has to have a key.”

“Now tell me again,” interjected Goodall, “who gave the alarm? The cleaner, you said, didn’t you?”

“That’s so,” replied Day. “The watchman on duty between twelve midnight and seven a. m. is always relieved by a Mrs. Turner—she sweeps and cleans the place up generally. When she arrived she got no answer, of course. Couldn’t get in! So she got into touch with the people next door, who ’phoned me. I came down post-haste. I guessed there was trouble because I knew we had some valuable things here.”

Goodall pursed his lips. “The door of your office was locked when you arrived?”

Day knitted his brows. Then a sudden flush of color welled and broke into the ordinary paleness of his face. “Inspector,” he said, “write me down a dunderhead. The door of my office was closed but not locked. I remember it distinctly now. I brought the keys of the front door along—my own keys—we all came in together—my partners and I—we found poor Mason on the floor there and I rushed to the ’phone for you and Doctor Archer. I never gave a thought to the fact that the door of my office wasn’t locked. The idea of the murder drove it completely from my mind.”

He paused—a little crestfallen and apologetic.

Goodall turned to the group of listeners somewhat dramatically. “That’s how the murderer got in and managed the job,” he declared. “Got in while the attention of the two watchmen was being distracted by the woman ‘decoy’—made his way quickly up here—picked the lock of that door”—he pointed to the door of the private office—“hid in the office till the time came for action—then pounced on Mason from behind.”

Linnell interposed. “Would he have sufficient time, do you think, Inspector, to pick the lock before Mason and Druce could get up here?”

“Depends on Mason and Druce and the time they spent downstairs,” replied Goodall. He swung round like lightning on the man concerned. Druce reddened. “How long were you before you and Mason came upstairs?”

Druce shifted his feet uneasily. “Not more than a matter of a few minutes, sir. Say five minutes!”

Goodall flashed a look of understanding at him. “I suppose you stayed at the foot of the staircase for a ‘few draws,’ eh?” He turned on his heel to Mr. Day. “Smoking forbidden here during the watchmen’s shifts, Mr. Day?”

Day inclined his head in assent.

“Thought so. Well, Druce, am I right?”

“Well, sir, Mason certainly did have a puff or two—only for a few minutes though.”

“Why did you come back with him—upstairs again—when you were going home?”

“For my things, sir. I never collected ’em together when I ’eard ’im knock. I always went straight down to ’im.”

Goodall nodded. “You and Mason were certainly long enough absent from the room to give this fellow his chance and Mason paid for his mistake with his life, poor chap. Now—about this woman, Druce—what was she like? Describe her!”

Druce shook his head with evident misgiving. “I’m afraid I can’t ’elp you much there, sir. I ain’t much of a ’and at descriptions—my daughter Poppy now—if she were ’ere she’d be able to——”

“Describe a woman she’d never seen, I suppose,” snapped Goodall. “Come now.”

Druce pulled up with a jerk. “Well, she ’ad on dark clothes and some sort of an ’at—and was about middle height.” He concluded hopefully.

Goodall turned away with a gesture of dismay.

“And yet we’re informed that all undiscovered crimes are the fault of the Police,” he said bitterly. “When we get civilian help like this.”

“What age would you say the woman was, Druce?” asked Mr. Day.

Druce hesitated. He seemed to find this another poser. Then he committed himself.

“Well, I ain’t certain, sir, not by no manner of means, but I should say somewhere between thirty and forty.”

“Dark or fair?”

“I couldn’t see, sir. Honest, I couldn’t—so it’s no use askin’ me, sir.”

Day turned in Goodall’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s about all we shall get, Inspector,” he declared semi-humorously. “Do you want to ask him any more?”

“I’m thirsting to,” drawled Goodall. “He’s such a mine of information. Let him go,” he muttered with a tinge of disgust.

Druce turned with relief written on every line of his face. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m glad to ’ave been of assistance to you.” He made his way to the door. Then he turned to the group again.

“I’ll tell you what I did notice about that woman, now I come to think of it,” he announced with an air of extreme wisdom.

“You don’t say!” declared Goodall. “Don’t tell me she walked with one shoulder lower than the other—all suspected persons do.”

“No!” replied Druce with disappointment in his tone. “Nothink so important as that, sir. But when she walked away up the street, sir, she sneezed several times. That’s what I’ve just thought of, sir.”

Goodall threw his head up hopelessly. “Can you beat that?” he said plaintively. “The stiff!” He heard Druce slowly descending the stairs, proudly aware no doubt of a very perfect piece of Pelmanism.

“There you are,” asserted Goodall, “there you have——”

His remarks were interrupted by a ring of the telephone from the private office. Mr. Day went into his room and picked up the receiver.

The others outside heard him say, “Yes! He’s here now. I’ll bring him to the ’phone.”

He came out. “Mr. Linnell,” he announced, “Mr. Daventry, your partner, would like to speak to you on the telephone.”

“Thank you,” said Linnell. He entered and took the message.

“What?” he said. “Good God, Peter—you can’t mean it. It’s impossible.”

He stayed a minute or two longer—then replaced the receiver with trembling finger. For the moment he had a hard task to control himself. Then he pulled himself together and reëntered the Gallery.

“Gentlemen,” he said very gravely, “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart was murdered last night in his library at Assynton. He was found with his skull battered in!”

CHAPTER IV.
Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst

To say that Goodall and his companions were dumbfounded is no exaggeration. Events were crowding upon them this morning with a vengeance. The announcement of this second murder took their breath away. It startled them and threw them off their balance much more effectively than the first calamity had done. Mason was a night-watchman! Stewart was a millionaire! The former could be very easily replaced—the latter’s death was a tragedy in more senses than one. Goodall knew perfectly well that any failure on his part to find the murderer of Mason would occasion no questions in Parliament and would cause the Home Secretary no loss of sleep. But now that Laurence P. Stewart was caught in the wheels of the murder-machinery he was painfully conscious that he must be “up and doing.” The case might be his, too!

“How did that news reach you, Mr. Linnell?” was his first question.

“From my partner, Mr. Daventry. He has just had a ’phone-call from Stewart’s home in Berkshire—from Stewart’s son, I understood him to say.”

“What made Stewart’s son telephone so quickly to your office?”

Linnell rubbed his cheek with his fingers. “He didn’t explain the reason to me just now—Daventry didn’t, I mean. I can only surmise that young Stewart knew that we had received instructions from his father concerning the sale of those antiques and wished possibly to countermand them—considering the fresh and tragic circumstances.”

“H’m,” muttered the Inspector. “I suppose that’s possible. When was Stewart murdered, did you say?”

“They believe—some time last night. Naturally, I wasn’t able to glean extensive details—even if my partner had been in a position to give them to me. But from what he did tell me, I imagine that the body was discovered early this morning.”

Goodall looked thoughtful. “Hardly looks like the same people! Assynton must be a matter of seventy miles from London—getting on for a couple of hours’ journey at least—that means they would have to leave there somewhere about nine-thirty, assuming Stewart to have been killed first, and accepting Druce’s evidence as reliable—h’m—possible but not probable—have to find out when Stewart was last seen alive.”

He turned to Linnell. “Extremely useful your turning up here, Mr. Linnell. There does seem to be a connection between the two affairs—difficult though it may be to discover it. I’ll come and see your Mr. Daventry later on.”

“I shall be delighted. There’s our address.” He handed his card to the Inspector.

Goodall fingered it, thinking carefully. “Mr. Forshaw!” he called. “Mr. Forshaw, Junior!”

“Yes, Inspector!”

“You stated just now that you interviewed Mr. Linnell’s partner yesterday.”

“That’s so, Inspector. Yesterday afternoon, to be precise.”

“What happened exactly—tell me?”

“Well, it was like this! This gentleman, Mr. Daventry, asked to be allowed to have a look at the Stuart stuff—the three articles that have been stolen. I showed them to him. He examined them rather carefully . . . that’s all I think . . . oh . . . he commented on the possibility of them being stolen . . . I remember that fact, because I took the trouble to explain the precautions that were always taken to safeguard our property.”

“You had a watch on the stuff then?” queried Goodall.

Day intervened and took up the thread from Forshaw. “Two of your people were here, Inspector. During the hours the Galleries were open to the public! In ‘plain-clothes’ of course, and armed! It’s our usual plan when we have sales of anything at all valuable. It’s been our practice for many years now.”

Goodall signified that he understood. Then he turned to young Forshaw again. “What else did this Daventry do?”

Forshaw passed his hands across his brow in an attempt at recollection.

“Nothing, I think! That is to say—oh, I remember—he asked how many other people had been to examine the three articles he was handling.”

“What was your answer? That question interests me too.”

“My answer was ‘nobody’ . . . It was true,” Forshaw replied simply.

Goodall looked across at Linnell.

“Now I wonder what made your partner——”

“Look here, Inspector,” broke in Linnell with a gesture of annoyance, “for goodness sake don’t start imagining things. Daventry was interested in Stuart articles purely from the standpoint of a competitive purchaser, about to act on behalf of a client—surely you don’t——”

Goodall patted him on the arm. “Don’t get a ‘peeve,’ Mr. Linnell. It’s my job to ask questions and very often a random sort of question hits a target quite unexpectedly. Don’t forget that the presence of both you and your partner in this affair is downright queer. Right from the beginning—to the point we’ve reached now—you admitted as much yourself when you came in.”

But Mr. Linnell’s professional dignity had been touched—he remained quite silent under the Inspector’s attempt at justification. He walked across to the others. “I think I’ll go, gentlemen. My partner will, no doubt, desire to discuss matters with me as soon as possible. You know where to find me if you should want me.”

He bowed to the company and made his exit.

Upon arrival at his offices in Cornhill he found Peter awaiting him with anxious impatience.

“I’m jolly glad to see you,” was his greeting. “There’s been a second message from Assynton—young Stewart was particularly anxious to talk to you—he seemed quite annoyed when I told him you were still away from the office.”

“Peter,” said Linnell, “we’ve been caught in a most curious set of circumstances. When you ’phoned me just now, at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’, what do you imagine I was doing?”

Peter looked at him blankly. “Doing? Why—having a look round of course—the same as I had. What are you driving at?”

“I’m not driving at anything, Peter. I’m just giving you some information. When I arrived at the show-rooms this morning I had rather a ‘jolt.’ The police were there—the Galleries had been robbed during the night—and what is even more dreadful than that, a night-watchman employed there had been brutally murdered.”

Peter gasped. “Good Lord! My telephone message to you must have been a shock.”

“It was! I could hardly believe my ears! I decided not to say anything to you over the ’phone but to come back here.”

Peter thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “Funny thing—we seem in it both ends—don’t we? The whole thing is very queer. Both here and in Berkshire.”

Linnell shook his head. “Not really. We just happened to be in at the Galleries end because Stewart sent us there—but I haven’t finished yet.”

Peter uttered a cry of amazement. “Don’t say there are any more——”

Linnell cut into his remarks. “I told you the Galleries had been robbed during the night. I didn’t tell you what had actually been stolen. As far as the police could tell when I left them, the only three things that had been taken were the very three that Stewart commissioned us to buy!”

He paused and walked to the window. Then turned and confronted Peter.

“What do you make of that? Extraordinary, isn’t it? To say the least!”

Peter whistled softly. “I said we seemed to be well in it. I feel sure now. And what’s more, Linnell, I’ve got a feeling we haven’t heard or seen the last of it either, by a long way. You mark my words.”

Linnell smiled. “I agree with you! As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Detective-Inspector Goodall hasn’t already got a certain Peter Daventry on his list of ‘suspects.’ I hope your alibi’s good.”

“What on earth are you gibbering about?” demanded Peter. “And who the hell’s Detective-Inspector Goodall?”

“I’m not gibbering, my dear fellow. Detective-Inspector Goodall is the gentleman from Scotland Yard that is investigating the Galleries murder, and he has, of course, been informed of your interest in the Stuart relics and of your call there yesterday. Young Forshaw told him. Then there was my call to-day—I got in ‘at the death’ as you might say—I could see he thought it was damned suspicious conduct—all of it—I explained our connection with the affair——”

“You told him of Stewart’s commission? Was that wise? Yet awhile?”

“I think so, Peter! My professional experience has taught me the value of frankness and truth—even as a solicitor—that is why I never entered Parliament.”

“But why suspect me?” reiterated Peter. “Is every intending purchaser on the——?”

“The police must suspect somebody. Why not flatter yourself at their attention? But tell me all you’ve heard about the Berkshire end of the tangle.”

Peter swung his legs as he sat . . . somewhat petulantly. “The message came through about half-past ten—the first message, I mean—Stewart’s secretary put it through—I think he said his name was Morgan or Llewellyn—I’m not sure. He asked if you were in—I told him ‘no’—then he asked for me. I said it was all right and he told me that young Mr. Stewart wanted me. The poor chap seemed very agitated—his father had been found dead in the library that morning. Murdered—his head beaten in! Would we cancel our instructions about the sale to-morrow? As far as he was able he was getting into touch with all his father’s immediate business activities . . . in the case of a millionaire, he explained, it was of the utmost importance . . . affected the money market so. That was about all, I fancy. Then I ’phoned the news on to you—I knew I should find you there. By the way, did you run down to Assynton last night?”

“Didn’t have time. When was the second telephone message?”

“About twenty minutes before you returned,” said Peter.

“What did he want?”

“He asked for you, again. It seems he isn’t too satisfied with the quality of the local Police Force—he’s asking for Scotland Yard to send a man down—says he’s prepared to pay anything to get at the truth and arrest the murderer. Also he wanted your advice. Could you recommend an efficient, discreet, and trustworthy private detective? They were the three adjectives he used.”

“Why does he appeal to me, I wonder?”

“I asked him that. He says he hasn’t been in England more than a few months and it occurred to him that we might help him. He also wants one of us to go down—his father’s solicitors, I understand, are in New York.”

“H’m,” muttered Linnell. “I can appreciate his position. But I’m afraid I’m no use to him in the matter of the private detective. I don’t know anybody I should care to send down there—it isn’t as though it were a case of keeping a person under observation.” He shook his head doubtfully.

“Nor I, either,” supplemented Peter. “What about his idea of one of us going down there—shall I go? What do you think yourself?”

“I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of ‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many imitators!”

“I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a ‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth didn’t I think of him before?”

“Who’s that? What do you mean?”

“Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t possibly find a better!”

“What is he—a private inquiry agent?”

“Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine Manor affair?”

“Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?”

“You’ve got it. Well, old Gerald was actually stopping in the house at the time. He always regards Bathurst as an absolute marvel. Cleared up the case when it had got the Police absolutely ‘stone cold.’ He never tires of singing Bathurst’s praises!”

“Where is he now? Do you know?”

Peter stroked his chin. Hadn’t Gerald told him Bathurst was living in London somewhere?

“No, I don’t. There you’ve got me! Still—old Gerald may know. I’ll give him a ring.” He unhooked the receiver. “Give me ‘Wedderburn and Rathbone,’ will you—the Accountants—Devonshire Place—will you please—I’ve forgotten the number. Oh! Thank you!”

He waited for a moment or two. “Yes. Mr. Gerald Daventry, that’s it! Oh—hallo, Gerald—Peter speaking. Could you possibly put me into touch with Anthony Bathurst? Eh? . . . Yes, something after his own heart, where . . . Leyton . . . thanks very much.”

He turned to Linnell. “Gerald says we shall probably find him at Leyton this afternoon, on the members’ pavilion. Middlesex are playing Essex, and he rarely misses any of the Middlesex games. He’ll come down himself—Gerald, I mean—and if Bathurst is there—he’ll introduce us.”

“All right, then, Peter. You get along—and if it can be arranged satisfactorily, we’ll ’phone Stewart when you return.”

“Won’t you come along too? Come and see your adopted shire!”

“No. I’ll stay here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Peter grinned! “You’re a superlative optimist,” he exclaimed, “I must introduce you to a friend of mine who’s a baseball ‘fan.’ He’d be tickled to death to hear you connect cricket with excitement.”

A step sounded in the corridor outside. Linnell and Peter glanced quickly in the direction of the door. Then Linnell heard a voice that he recognized only too well.

“Come in, Inspector,” he announced. “I was half expecting you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Linnell. I thought no harm would be done if I came along and dropped in on you as I suggested. This gentleman, I presume, is Mr. Daventry?” His keen eyes ran Peter up and down.

Peter bowed. “Quite right, Inspector. The man in whom you are interested, I believe.”

Goodall shot a quick glance at him—then laughed quietly. “Mr. Linnell’s been talking, I suppose! I certainly got a bit curious—but there—curiosity’s part of my job—and I can’t afford to take anything for granted.”

“Any more news, Inspector?” intervened Linnell affably.

“Up to the moment—no! I came straight on here. I want to have a look at one or two things! That letter from Stewart—may I see it?”

Linnell opened a drawer and handed the letter to him.

“H’m,” muttered Goodall. “Assynton postmark—June 7th.” He read it. “I fancy you gave me to understand that you knew nothing about Stewart, till you got this letter. Am I right?”

“That is so, Inspector. My only knowledge of him was just ordinary public knowledge.”

“I see. What did you do after you got the letter?”

“I thought it over and wired back. To get confirmation, as it were!”

“And you got a reply?”

“This!”

Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to ripple over Goodall’s face.

“Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking.

“Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young Stewart ’phoning here.”

Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr. Daventry!”

Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or the desire for a private detective.

Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes.

“Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?”

Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being humiliated.

“Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.”

“Thank you! And after that?” He fingered his note-book.

“I dined at my club—then went to a show.”

“Thank—you—your club is—and the show was——?”

“The Isthmian—Piccadilly—and ‘On Approval’! Anything more, Mr. Inspector?”

“That will do for the present.” Goodall closed his note-book with a snap.

Peter’s eyes blazed at him angrily. “And if you’re interested in any more of my comings and goings—I may as well tell you that I’m just off down to Leyton to put in an hour or two at the Middlesex and Essex match.”

But Goodall remained imperturbable under the shaft of sarcasm. “Wish I could come with you! I like watching cricket—particularly Lancashire and Glamorganshire—they always seem to me to lack supporters so—it means such a terrible lot of traveling, you see, for their relations to go to watch them.” The Inspector grinned.

Peter’s ill-temper vanished instantaneously at Goodall’s sally. He held out his hand and shook the Inspector’s. Goodall took it—crossed to Linnell—and departed.

“I’ll bring Bathurst along, then, as arranged—if I’m lucky enough to find him.”

Linnell made a gesture of assent. “If he’ll come! Then we’ll get on to Assynton and tell them.”

Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved unavailing.

Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing ‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along up there. Is it anything important?”

“It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.”

“Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?”

They drifted and after the one had multiplied considerably the two Daventrys motored back up to Knightsbridge.

“The uninitiated would never dream of a club like ‘Princes’ hiding here, would they, Peter?” queried his brother as they entered. “I remember being very interested the first time I came.”

Bathurst was soon run to earth.

“Haven’t seen you for nearly a year, Daventry! Your brother? Delighted! Fit?”

“Very fit—thanks—and you?”

“Never better!” His words did not belie him. Anthony Bathurst, in whatever company of men he found himself, was usually the fittest of the lot. He excelled at nearly all ball games and took extraordinary pains to keep thoroughly “trained.” And his mental powers were equally outstanding. Peter Daventry speedily realized something of the admiration that he knew his brother felt for the man to whom he had just been introduced. He was aware of that atmosphere of “personality” that distinguishes a select company.

“What brings you along here?” queried Anthony. “Playing—are you?”

“No,” responded Gerald. “I’ve brought Peter here to see you! It’s his funeral.”

Anthony waved them into a couple of deck-chairs. “What about?”

“He’s got a story for you that you may possibly find interesting. Have a cigarette, lie back in your chair, and listen. Now, Peter—say your mouthful.”

Peter complied with his brother’s request. Bathurst lay listening—apparently lazily—but Peter quickly discovered that his faculties were acutely alert. When he reached the murder of Mason—the night-watchman, Anthony’s eyes betrayed understanding.

“I read a short account in the early editions to-day. Seemed just an interrupted robbery case to me then . . . of course . . . you say the identical three things . . . go on.”

At the point when Peter told of the death of Stewart, Bathurst listened most attentively. “Extraordinary,” he commented at the finish of Peter’s narrative. “Quite a fascinating little problem. And you say Stewart’s son would like me to have a look at it for him—eh?”

“He wants me to bring somebody down with me and I suddenly thought of you—I had heard so much of you from Gerald.”

Anthony took a cigarette and lit up carefully. “I’ve nothing pressing at the moment. I’m your man if you’re sure you want me.”

“That’s great. When can you come along?”

Anthony looked at his watch.

“I should have liked to commence my little investigations at this end. But I suppose I can’t—I must get down to Assynton to see Stewart—that’s evident—there’s a train at Paddington at five minutes to seven. That will get us down before nine. I’ll meet you on the platform, Daventry.”

“Right!” declared Peter, “6:55 then.”

“Yes—and Daventry—I think you’d better bring a revolver.”

CHAPTER V.
The Assynton Lodge Murder

Sergeant Clegg assumed an air of profound sagacity, which did not altogether become him too well. At the moment he was a prey to conflicting emotions. A police-officer’s career in an obscure Berkshire village doesn’t get too many chances for personal “spot-light.” And although he felt that his big chance had come, he had a nasty feeling somewhere at the back of his mind that the case was going to prove too big. However, he turned to the son of the murdered man and to the Doctor who had accompanied him into the library and made his preliminary announcement—importantly!

“Nothing in here must be touched. Nothing—whatever.”

“Nothing has been disturbed, Sergeant Clegg. Doctor Gunner arrived only a few minutes in front of you.”

“That’s all right, then, Mr. Stewart! You might make your examination, Doctor, with as little disturbance of the corpse as possible—will you? I haven’t got a photographer handy—that business will have to come later.”

The murdered man was seated in a chair at his desk—the cause of death being painfully visible to all. He had received a heavy blow or blows from behind—the back of his skull was smashed like an egg-shell. He had apparently been in the act of writing when killed—for his pen had almost entirely fallen from his grasp—the butt being just retained between thumb and forefinger. He was dressed in a dark-blue dressing-gown and on his feet were bedroom slippers. The dressing-gown had been put on over his pajama sleeping suit and he gave every appearance of having come downstairs from his bedroom. The doctor busied himself for a few moments over his gruesome task. Meanwhile the Sergeant turned to the young man who found himself so suddenly bereaved. He cleared his throat—twice.

“Tell me the details, Mr. Stewart, as far as you are able.” Stewart shook his head.

“I know very little. The maid who does the library every morning was amazed this morning to find the door locked. She couldn’t understand it, so she informed Butterworth, the butler. He went along and found that what she had reported was correct. He sought me out and we found Mr. Llewellyn, my father’s secretary. We went to my father’s bedroom. It was empty—the bed had not been slept in. So we decided to burst open the library door. You can see for yourselves how we found my father. I immediately telephoned for you and for Doctor Gunner.”

“The door was locked, you say. Where was the key?”

“In the lock—on the inside.”

Clegg strolled across to the French doors that opened on to the garden. “These are fastened all right. All the bolts are shot.” He stooped down and examined them.

“By gum—that’s funny. How did the murderer escape? Bit of a puzzle—eh?”

Stewart saw the drift of his remarks. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he ventured.

Clegg walked over to the desk and looked at it carefully. Beside the dead man’s hand there rested a sheet of notepaper. The Sergeant took it up. “Looks as though this is what he was writing when the blow fell,” he suggested.

Scrawled on the paper were the words, “Urgent in the morning! M. L.” “This your father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?” he asked.

The young man looked over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “Without a doubt—although it looks to me as though it had been written very hurriedly or in a moment of extreme agitation—it isn’t as firm as usual.”

Clegg leaned over the dead man and felt in the pockets of his dressing-gown.

The right-hand pocket was empty. He gave a sharp exclamation when he took from the left—a revolver. He looked at it carefully. “Loaded in five chambers,” he declared—“the sixth has been discharged.” His eyes traveled slowly round the room. Then they came back to Stewart. “Did you hear anything like a shot any time last evening or during the night?”

Stewart shook his head in dissent. “Nothing at all!”

“Is this your father’s revolver?”

“It looks like it—though it’s a common pattern.”

Clegg turned to the Doctor. “Finished your little investigation, Doctor?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “Been dead about twelve hours, I should say, and received three blows I think! I’ll leave him as nearly as possible as he was when I came in. I’ll make arrangements for moving him later.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” Clegg returned to young Stewart. “I suppose your father had had no recent quarrel with anybody?”

“N—no. Not that I’m aware of! Of course a man with his vast financial interests didn’t go through life without making some enemies—and pretty vindictive ones at that—but I can think of nothing special—certainly not recently.”

He spoke with deep feeling in his voice, and Clegg wasn’t absolutely sure that there hadn’t been just a trace of hesitation in the first part of his answer.

“How old was your father, Mr. Stewart?” he continued.

“Fifty-three in July—on the twenty-second of next month. We have been in England only a matter of a few months.”

“From America, wasn’t it? I remember your coming here.”

“New York—previously we had lived at Washington and Chicago.”

“You the only member of the family living here?”

“My father’s ward, Miss Lennox, lives here also. She is like a member of the family.”

“Who else is in the house?”

“My father’s private secretary—a Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—Butterworth, the butler, and his wife, who acts as housekeeper, and the servants.”

“Any idea, Mr. Stewart, who was the last person to see your father alive?”

“I don’t know that I can answer that question with certainty. I had been out during the evening—playing tennis. I returned about a quarter to ten. My father was in here with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—that’s a neighbor of ours—I simply put my head round the door and said ‘Good-night.’ ”

“Didn’t you go in and speak to the Colonel?”

“Oh no! He’s a constant visitor here, has been on very friendly terms with my father ever since we came here. I never feel on ‘company manners’ with him.”

“Any idea what time the Colonel left?”

“No—Butterworth could probably tell you.”

“Butterworth’s the butler, isn’t he? And the secretary’s name is Llewellyn? How long have they been with you?”

“Butterworth came into my father’s service when we were living at Washington. He was butler to Sir Julian Kennedy, the British Ambassador at Washington at that time. When Sir Julian died—about fifteen years ago I should say—speaking from memory—my father offered him employment. My father”—his voice broke a trifle—the realization that his father was dead was becoming more poignant to him as time passed—“regarded him as invaluable.”

“And Mr. Llewellyn? How long has he been with your father?”

“About two years. He came to us when we were in New York.”

“The butler’s wife—you said just now, I think—acts as housekeeper?”

“Yes. There are four maids here, also.”

“Any comments to make on them?” The Sergeant puffed out his cheeks and endeavored to look impressive.

“I have nothing against any of them.”

“You’ll forgive me, I hope, putting the question, Mr. Stewart—especially at a time like this—had your father any entanglements as you might say with the opposite sex?” The indelicacy of his query affected the Sergeant so profoundly as to produce a superfluous aspirate.

But once again he was destined to draw a blank.

“You can make your mind easy on that point, Sergeant. My mother died ten years ago when I was twelve. It was a great blow to my father—they idolized each other—I don’t think the thought of another woman since has ever entered my father’s mind.” He kept his gaze resolutely averted from the still figure at the desk. Doctor Gunner, before he had slipped out, had reverently laid a white towel over the head and face. But the boy’s nerves were rapidly getting on edge, and he felt he would be unable to endure this phlegmatic policeman very much longer. Clegg, however, was nothing if not “thorough.” His favorite philosophy was to contemplate the epic struggle of the hare and the tortoise and whenever he was tempted to hitch his personal wagon to a star he always took excessive care to see it was well secured. “I don’t believe in taking a lot of risks,” he was wont to say to his staff at Assynton. “Care may have killed the cat, but it’s never been known to have killed a policeman.”

This case that Fate had tossed so unexpectedly into his lap was beginning to worry him a trifle. It was so much bigger than anything he had previously handled. Once again the conviction was borne upon him that in all likelihood it would prove eventually to be too much for him. However, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” might have been his uppermost thought as he squared his ponderous shoulders and walked across the room. As you entered, the desk stood on the left with its back to the left-hand wall. The leathern arm-chair in which the dead man sat was drawn up to the desk in the usual way. A person seated in this arm-chair would therefore show the left-hand side of his face to anybody entering by the door. Facing the door stood a bookcase—sectional. It was of many more sections than is usual. Stewart was evidently a lover of books—the “standard” authors jostled each other and Coventry Patmore rubbed shoulders with Renan, Baudelaire and Verlaine. On the right were French windows commanding the garden. No part of it, however, brought Sergeant Clegg his badly needed “inspiration.” Nothing in the room seemed to him to tell any story other than its natural one. He walked back to the door. That door worried him. “Key in the lock on the inside,” he muttered—“bolts on the French doors shot—top and bottom—and a dead man inside the room.”

He made his disconsolate way to the fireplace—on the bookcase’s right. Bending down, he stepped into the hearth and attempted to look up the chimney. The attempt proved completely unsuccessful as a source of inspiration. It was speedily made plain to the Sergeant that the murderer of Laurence P. Stewart had not escaped in that direction. Then an idea struck him.

“Have you communicated with your father’s solicitors, Mr. Stewart?”

Stewart shook his head. “No, my father’s solicitors are Crake and Ferguson—New York. I’m going to get Mr. Llewellyn to cable them as soon as possible.”

“New York’s a long way away. It’s a pity you haven’t somebody nearer.”

“I may be able to get into touch with somebody who may assist me—till Crake and Ferguson move in the matter. I had considered that possibility myself.”

Clegg concurred with a heavy shake of the head.

“Good. Now I must get a move on, too. I had better have an interview with some of these others.” He consulted his note-book with judicial gravity. “Ring for this Mr. Llewellyn—will you, Mr. Stewart—please?”

Within a few minutes the summons was answered. The secretary was a man somewhere in the early thirties. Of good height and slim, with the hair thinning considerably on the front of his head, his general appearance, aided by the pince-nez that he wore, suggested what may be termed not unkindly an academic superciliousness. His eyes were a rather unusual shade of reddish-brown and gave an acute observer an impression of brooding watchfulness. He entered the room quietly, yet perhaps warily.

“You wished to see me, I believe?”

Sergeant Clegg grunted a somewhat reluctant affirmative.

“I am conducting a preliminary investigation, Mr. Llewellyn, into the death of your employer, Mr. Laurence Stewart. If it lies in your power at all to help me, I want you to do so.”

“I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know—which I’m afraid isn’t very much.”

“Thank you. When were you first informed of the tragedy?”

“This morning—about eight o’clock—just about an hour and a half ago. I was in my bedroom dressing when Mr. Charles Stewart came to my door and told me he feared something was amiss with his father. I finished my toilet hastily and joined him and the butler, Butterworth. The maid, it appeared, had been unable to get into the library—the door was locked. The three of us burst down the door and were horrified to find Mr. Stewart as he is.” He inclined his head in the direction of the motionless body.

“What did you do then?”

“Well, we rushed up to him—but it didn’t take us very long to realize that he was dead.”

“And then——?”

“Mr. Charles Stewart gave me certain orders to convey to the servants while he telephoned for you and for the doctor.”

“I am told, Mr. Llewellyn, that after you three gentlemen burst the door open—you found the key in the lock on the inside.”

“That is true. Mr. Charles Stewart called my attention to it specially.”

“And the French doors were also fastened—all the bolts firm in the slots?”

“Yes.”

“When did you last see your employer alive?”

“At dinner, last night.”

“Was it your custom to dine with him?”

“Usually I did. Our dinner party generally consisted of Mr. Stewart, his son, Miss Lennox, and me.”

“Was that the case last evening?”

Charles Stewart intervened. “I did not dine here last evening. I was out. I think I told you. I was playing tennis.”

Clegg nodded his head. “That’s all right, sir! I understand!”

Llewellyn proceeded. “Colonel Leach-Fletcher completed our party last evening—but really, I don’t see——”

“Had this Colonel any particular reason for dining here last evening?”

Stewart allowed a faint smile to illumine his features. “What on earth do you mean, Sergeant? Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here at my poor father’s invitation—he didn’t suddenly announce that he intended to stop for dinner.”

Llewellyn’s brooding eyes seemed to smoulder for a brief instant—then they flickered back to their habitual watchfulness. He allowed himself the vestige of a smile. His smile broadened as the Sergeant made a clumsy attempt at extrication.

“Naturally, naturally, gentlemen. Exactly what I meant.” He followed the secretary’s eyes and observed them rest on the desk-table in front of the dead man. “It seems that Mr. Stewart was writing a message of some kind when he was struck down?”

“Yes,” came Llewellyn’s quick response, almost automatically. “Mr. Charles Stewart and I noticed that when we first found the body.”

“What do you think its meaning is?”

Llewellyn raised his eyebrows in interrogation. The poise of his head and the somewhat peremptory significance contained in his gesture, accentuated his suggestion of superciliousness.

He held out his hand. “May I see it again? I hardly——”

Clegg took the paper from beneath the dead man’s hand. “Not much to go on, I admit! But Mr. Stewart had evidently received important news of some kind that he regarded as very urgent. To sit down to write it there and then——” he stopped abruptly. “M. L.” he quoted. “They might be a person’s initials even,” he declared.

Stewart felt a flood of sudden excitement run through his veins. He watched Llewellyn’s face keenly and could not avoid seeing the sudden glint flash through the striking eyes. But once again the flame was but momentary and died down as quickly as it had been born.

When the secretary answered he was coolness personified. “They might. It’s very probable. They might even be mine. I am called Morgan Llewellyn.”

He paused and watched the effect of his declaration upon his questioner. Then continued, even cooler than he had appeared before, “But I can suggest no good reason to make me think that they are.”

Both Clegg and Charles Stewart watched him very closely. And to each of them there came the feeling—in the first case, slowly and of deliberation, and in the second case, quickly and instinctively—that his coolness was assumed and his seemingly frank indifference something of a calculated pose.

Clegg harked back. “Going back a little way, Mr. Llewellyn, you stated that you last saw Mr. Stewart at dinner. What happened after dinner?”

Again Llewellyn’s answer came quickly. “After dinner, Mr. Stewart intimated to me that he was going into the library with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—and that he wouldn’t require anything further from me. I think that he had something to discuss with the Colonel, who is a keen collector like Mr. Stewart—was. I was free to do as I pleased.”

“What did you do?”

“I spent the rest of the evening with Miss Lennox in the music-room.”

“What time would that be?”

“From about half-past eight till ten o’clock, I should say!”

Clegg made a note of the times. “One more question, Mr. Llewellyn! Did you go straight to bed after that?”

“I did. I was in bed, I should think, by half-past ten.”

“Now think very carefully, Mr. Llewellyn. Did you at any time during the evening or during the night hear anything like a revolver shot?”

Llewellyn started up in his chair, stung by surprise. “Certainly not!”

Clegg glanced at Stewart. “Confirms your statement, Mr. Stewart. I can’t think myself that the shot was fired in here. The fact of the revolver being in your father’s pocket—not in his hand—the fact that there is a complete absence of any signs of a struggle—both those facts seem to me to point to the shot having been fired elsewhere—at some other time.”

Stewart appeared to agree. “I heard nothing. I told you I didn’t.”

The Sergeant thought for a moment. “How far away are your bedrooms?” he demanded.

“Mine is on the floor above this,” answered Charles Stewart. “Llewellyn’s is above that.”

“Where is your father’s?”

“Next to mine! The only other bedroom on that floor is used by Miss Lennox.”

“And the servants?”

“On the same floor as Llewellyn’s. On the other wing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stewart. I don’t think I shall need Mr. Llewellyn any more for the present. Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn.”

The secretary bowed and thanked the Sergeant, not without a touch of irony.

Charles Stewart turned to him as he walked to the door.

“You might get that cable off to New York, that I mentioned to you previously, and also ’phone to that firm in Cornhill who were acting for my father to-morrow, will you? Explain the circumstances and tell them to consider their instructions cancelled. I can’t see any reason why I should go ahead with those purchases now. Stay, though, a minute—get them for me and I’ll speak to them—I’ll tell them all about the whole affair. Probably that will avoid any misunderstanding.”

Llewellyn took his instructions quietly and went out. Charles Stewart gestured to the Sergeant.

“My father intended to purchase two or three more very special antiques—he was always anxious to add to his collection. Now that this dreadful thing has happened—I don’t care to go on with it.”

“I understand exactly how you feel, sir. It does you credit.”

“Whom will you see next, Sergeant? Or have you finished for the time being?”

Clegg looked at his note-book—then wetted the point of his pencil, thoughtfully.

“I should like a few words with the lady that’s been mentioned, Mr. Stewart. This ward of your father’s—Miss Lennox.”

Stewart turned quickly. “I don’t think she’ll be able to——”

The door moved and Llewellyn entered. Charles Stewart frowned.

“I’ve got through to Cornhill, Mr. Stewart. If you would come along—they’re holding the line. Mr. Linnell is out—Mr. Daventry, the junior partner, is speaking.”

“Right.” He turned again towards Clegg. “Pardon me for a minute or two, Sergeant. I’ll just transact this little piece of business and on my way back I’ll tell Miss Lennox you would like to speak to her. You will see her in another room, of course.” He looked across at the desk significantly. Clegg showed his agreement. The glorious June sunshine flooded through the French doors and bathed the room with its shimmering shafts. It seemed completely incongruous in that room where so recently tragedy had dwelt. Shadows would have become it more fittingly than sunshine. The presence of the dead man stirred an emotional chord in Clegg’s being and he shivered. He walked away from the desk beside which he had been standing towards the French doors and looked out into the garden. For a moment or two he stood there thinking—his shivery feeling vanishing under the warming and comforting influence of the summer sun. He glanced down at the curtains that hung, one at the side of each door—then started. Bending down quickly, he picked out something that had been lying hidden there—something that nestled a pure white against the creamy-white of the curtains. It was a lady’s handkerchief—fragrant, fragile and delicate. Holding it somewhat gingerly, he opened it! In the corner were embroidered initials—“M. L.”

“By Gum!” said Sergeant Clegg.

CHAPTER VI.
Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters

The Sergeant felt hope surging in his breast. Up to this moment his investigations had yielded little, but this sudden discovery, he felt, had at last set him moving. This “M. L.,” whoever it might be, had undoubtedly an important bearing on the case. Twice this morning previously these initials had confronted him. He subjected the handkerchief to a most careful scrutiny. It was a lace square of about six inches and exhaled a dainty fragrance that in other circumstances even the Sergeant might have found distinctly alluring. For he was something of a Romantic! And in consequence had an inclination towards a leniency to what he himself always described as “the fair sex.” He heard Stewart’s voice outside and hastily pocketed the delicate trifle that the curtains had concealed. When Stewart entered he found the Sergeant engaged in a careful examination of the bookcase.

“I have arranged that you see Miss Lennox in the music-room. Will that suit you, Sergeant?”

Clegg thanked him, but stayed where he was. “That will do very nicely, Mr. Stewart,” he replied. “But would you mind telling the constable on duty at the front entrance to report to me for just a moment—or sending somebody with a message to that effect? Thank you.”

“I want you for a little while, Potter,” he said to the man when he came in. “You’re to keep at this door here and to see that nobody enters! You understand—nobody! If you have any trouble over it—send for me. I shall only be the other side of the hall.”

P. C. Potter saluted smartly. “Right—Sergeant. Is the body in here?”

“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question, for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question.

“This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.”

Marjorie Lennox rose quietly from the low chair upon which she had been seated.

“I am ready to tell the Sergeant anything.”

And at that moment the truth came home to Sergeant Clegg—unerringly—that unless he “watched his step” very carefully he would be as wax in the hands of the highly-capable Miss Lennox. He found himself fervently wishing that he belonged to the ranks of the “strong, silent men”—certainly not to the Romantics. For Marjorie Lennox had a delicate beauty and a dainty charm that were instantly arresting. She was “petite,” it is true, but she had that semi-disdainful, semi-challenging roguishness that many men find so hard to resist. It was easy to find fault with her features, for her nose was appreciably “retroussé”—but this very tip-tiltedness only served, if anything, to enhance her attractiveness. She had glorious blue eyes—twin pools of pure cornflower, and a complexion that made one immediately think of roses and cream. Added to this she possessed a demure gracefulness that almost perfected her, giving her a Dresden china sort of setting—from the depths of which she was destined to play havoc with the hearts of men. And of course she fulfilled that destiny to the limit of her dainty power! Sergeant Clegg threw an inexorable rein over his romanticism and did his duty. A little throat clearing once again prefaced his first remark.

“Thank you, Miss——” he hesitated momentarily.

“Lennox,” she broke in quickly. “Marjorie Lennox. I am—or rather, I was—Mr. Stewart’s ward.” She sank back in her chair again.

“Yes, miss. I understand that much. How long have you lived with Mr. Stewart?”

“Ever since I was a little girl of three. My father was a very old friend of Uncle Laurence’s—I always called Mr. Stewart ‘uncle’ ”—she explained with engaging candor—“and when my father died I came to Uncle Laurence to live. My mother died when I was born,” she added simply.

“Was your father in good circumstances when he died—can you remember?”

Marjorie Lennox flushed. “I believe not. Certainly his circumstances were quite different from those of Uncle Laurence. What has that to do——?”

Clegg wagged his head half apologetically. “I see! I see! Now, coming to the events of last night—I’ve no wish to distress you, Miss Lennox, but there’s just this. You dined, I believe, with Mr. Stewart, Colonel Leach-Fletcher and Mr. Morgan. Is that so?” He ticked the three names off on his fingers.

“Yes. There were just the four of us. Charles did not return for dinner.”

“And after dinner?”

Marjorie flashed him a searching—penetrating glance. “Do you mean what did I do after dinner or——”

“If you please, miss.” The Sergeant became acutely aware of his constitutional chivalry, but sternly suppressed it.

“I came in here. It is my usual practice after dinner. Uncle Laurence used to like me to play to him—he was passionately fond of music. But last night he went into the library.”

“Did you stay in here for the rest of the evening?”

“Yes—no—no, I’m wrong! It was about nine o’clock when I left here.”

She amended her statement with the utmost composure and Clegg couldn’t be sure if she had made a genuine mistake or was desirous of concealing something. But he remembered Llewellyn’s story and the two didn’t tally! Llewellyn had made no mention of Miss Lennox having left the music-room at nine o’clock! He had stated that he spent the remainder of the evening with her. Now—according to Marjorie Lennox—he had been alone for an hour. That is to say there was at least one hour of his time for which he had not accounted. Now Clegg was slow-moving and inspiration visited him but seldom, but he took care, and he quickly came to the conclusion that hereabouts in his inquiry extreme care would be necessary if he were to achieve any success. He decided to hasten slowly.

“Where did you go then, Miss Lennox?” he followed up.

“To my room. My uncle was still engaged with Colonel Leach-Fletcher in the library, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.”

“Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?”

“No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would go to bed early.”

“You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?”

“Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve.

“When did you last go in there?”

“To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you ask?”

She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it. His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at least.

“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.”

“No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection.

“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology.

But it didn’t deceive Miss Lennox. Just as Clegg had realized her insincerity, so she in her turn knew that this rather lame explanation of his question to her had not been the truth. She immediately put herself on the defensive. Inclined as she had been in the first place to under-rate this policeman, she effected a mental readjustment.

She awaited his next question—outwardly unchanged, but inwardly more vigilant. When it came it surprised her.

“Did you hear anything unusual in the night, Miss Lennox?” Somewhat relieved, she breathed more freely, but her defensive tension remained unrelaxed.

“Nothing! I slept like a top.” The blue eyes regarded him ingenuously.

“Thank you. One last question, Miss Lennox. You have lived a long time with Mr. Laurence Stewart, almost as long I suppose as Mr. Charles Stewart here—and ladies, if you’ll excuse me saying such a thing, are very often more in a man’s confidence than gentlemen! For instance, you were as a daughter to the poor gentleman”—he broke off suddenly—and Marjorie Lennox began to sob quietly—her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. There was genuine sorrow here—Sergeant Clegg had sufficient sense to recognize it when it came his way—and it was reflected in young Stewart as well. His white face grew whiter—the ordeal of this dreadful day was oppressing him more and more—and Marjorie’s convulsive sobbing tore his heart-strings. He knew he must have help. He would get it as soon as he could. This was too much. Sergeant Clegg felt his courage sink into his boots. This sobbing was more than a Romantic could stand—the more so because he himself had provoked it. He must do something to stop it. He placed his hand on her shoulder—an act that he was always to remember.

“Come, come. What I mean is this. If Mr. Stewart regarded you in the light of a daughter—did he ever confide in you? Any secret? Any trouble? Had he any enemies that might have wanted to do him harm?”

She looked up. “He had no secrets at all. He wasn’t the kind. But since you’ve asked me—I’ll tell you—something.”

She sprang to her feet. Her eyes shone like stars and her hands were clenched together. Her whole manner altered.

“There is a man who wanted to do him harm. A man none of you would ever suspect. He’s in the house now—why should I shield him?”

Charles Stewart threw out his hand and attempted to restrain her. But she flung the proffered hand away imperiously, while Stewart looked at her reproachfully.

“Sergeant Clegg asked me,” she asserted vehemently. “Sergeant Clegg shall know. The man is Morgan Llewellyn!!!”

Clegg received the announcement stolidly—he was progressing! Charles Stewart gave a gasp of astonishment and turned to her with an air of remonstrance.

“You’re mad, Marjorie! You’ve no right to bring an accusation of that kind. Why should Llewellyn have harmed my father?”

Clegg waited eagerly for the answer. He even got his note-book ready.

Marjorie Lennox faced her so-called cousin defiantly—her blue eyes challenging his grey ones. For a moment there was a silent battle for the mastery. Then before either of the men could stop her, she swept majestically from the room!

CHAPTER VII.
Butterworth Is Apprehensive of the Future

For the second time on that eventful morning Sergeant Clegg felt at loggerheads with circumstances. For the second time he felt that the Law had received a set-back—that he, its accredited representative, had been flouted!

Charles Stewart looked at him somewhat anxiously. How was he going to take this feminine outburst? Stewart attempted to smooth things over. “A trifle hysterical, I fancy, Sergeant, and it’s scarcely to be wondered at. She’s had a trying time—I know what it’s been like to me—it must be a thousand times worse for her.”

Clegg nodded. “H’m. Now that’s most extraordinary. There’s an ‘M. L.’ on the paper under your father’s hand—then there turns up a ‘Morgan Llewellyn’—then I find a ‘Marjorie Lennox’ and a——” he pulled himself up. He would keep the handkerchief incident absolutely to himself. “And to crown all—one of the ‘M. L.’s’ finishes up by accusing the other ‘M. L.’ ” He sighed and then gave expression to the point that had been his constant worry since his arrival. “What was the weapon the murderer used?”

Stewart broke in upon him. “With all deference, Sergeant, I shouldn’t place any reliance at all on what Miss Lennox said. She’s distraught.”

“She’s not, Mr. Stewart. She’s not the kind. She meant something—I’ll take my Bible oath on that.”

Stewart shook his head as though unconvinced. “Women are whimsical, Sergeant.”

“I know. None better. I’ve been married seventeen years and I’m still learning things—but there you are! I’d like to see this butler of yours now—what’s his name, Butterworth?”

“Right! In here?”

“No—in the library. I’ll get along in there again. Bring Butterworth, will you, Mr. Stewart?”

“Well, Potter,” said the Sergeant as he regained the library door, “everything O. K.?”

Potter touched his helmet—satisfaction oozing from his finger-tips. “Yes, Sergeant—nobody’s crossed the threshold since you left, Sergeant. A young lady came across the corridor just now and wanted me to let her pull down the blinds or something—she said the sun ruined the carpet at this time of the day—but I explained as genteelly as I could about orders being orders.” He beamed at this account of his devotion to duty. Clegg scratched his chin. The plot was getting thicker!

“What sort of a young lady, Potter?”

“On the small side, Sergeant. A regular dainty piece she was and no mistake!”

“How long ago was this?”

“Only a few minutes, Sergeant. You only just missed her.”

“Now what does she want in here,” thought Clegg as he entered. Her handkerchief? Something else? Or both? His musings were cut abruptly short by the entrance of Stewart with the butler. Butterworth was a man with a presence. Tall and well set-up, he carried his sixty odd years with impressive dignity. When he had left the service of Sir Julian Kennedy for that of the man whom they were now mourning, it had not been without a certain amount of misgiving. After all, as he was fond of relating to a carefully chosen circle, the British aristocracy was a thing apart. Sir Julian had been a diplomat of the old school, and in the words of Butterworth, “we were ‘looked up to’ by the ‘élite’ of Washington.” He had accepted Stewart’s offer of employment with a certain suggestion of condescension—and after he had turned down two less remunerative offers, it was a tribute to his strength of character that this apparent condescension still remained obvious in the manner of his acceptance. Certainly it was sufficiently manifest to impress Laurence Stewart. But the Butterworth of this morning was not the Butterworth that had lamented Sir Julian Kennedy. Fifteen years had made a considerable difference in him, and a man who has turned sixty, fears the “menace of the years” more than the man turned forty. He had hoped to finish his days with this rich American. Last night’s tragedy had definitely closured that idea. Butterworth loved England—the English countryside; he loved “breathing English air” and “suns of home,” and it was extremely improbable that Charles Stewart would continue the establishment on his father’s lines. The boy had spent most of his life in America and in all probability he would return there. Therefore Butterworth was not free from anxiety this morning. He was face to face with upheaval—and he disliked change exceedingly.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, on his entrance. “I understand you wish to speak to me.”

Clegg was visibly impressed. He realized that he was in close touch with a “personage.” Butterworth had intended that he should.

“Yes—Mr.—Butterworth. It would help me considerably in my investigations”—Clegg was at pains to do at least some share of the “impressing” business—“if you could tell me for certain when you last saw Mr. Stewart alive.”

“I can do that without any difficulty. I showed Colonel Leach-Fletcher out a few minutes after ten. My master told me that it was not his intention to sit up late—would I lock up at half-past ten. At ten-thirty precisely I came in here, as was my usual practice, Sergeant Clegg, to lock up for the night. My master had retired, as he had previously said that he should. I bolted the French doors—replaced the tantalus—and locked the library door. I then attended to the other living rooms down here, and shortly afterwards retired to rest myself. It was Mr. Stewart’s special orders that I should always personally perform the locking up duty every night. He was extremely particular with regard to it.”

Clegg nodded gravely to express his complete understanding.

“How long did it take you?” he asked, knitting his brows.

“I was in bed by ten-forty and asleep almost immediately. I am a sound sleeper, Sergeant.”

“And nothing awakened you?”

“Nothing whatever! The first intimation that I had that anything unusual had occurred was early this morning. Barton—one of the maids—was unable to gain admission to the library. She referred the matter to me—I came and tried the door—it was locked and the key gone. I went to Mr. Charles at once. We got Mr. Llewellyn and came down here together. We eventually burst the door open.”

“One moment, Butterworth! Are you perfectly certain that the key was in the lock on the inside and that the French doors were bolted when you entered?”

Butterworth paused for a brief moment to assimilate thoroughly the full significance of the question. Then he nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I am. Mr. Charles called our attention to the key, and I can swear to the bolts on the French doors having been shot tight. I saw them—you can rely on both those facts.”

Charles Stewart interposed. “I can vouch for that too, Clegg! Also Llewellyn. Rest easy on that point.” Clegg stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger, seemingly disinclined to accept this piece of soothing advice. There was no denying, however, the vital importance of what the butler had stated.

“Anything else, Butterworth?”

“We found my master dead, Mr. Clegg. Exactly as I can see him sitting now.” His voice broke. “It was a great blow to me. For all of us, no doubt; but one describes one’s own feelings best. No servant ever worked for a better master. I loved Mr. Stewart and I’m pleased and proud to think that he had a little affection for me. I don’t quite know what will happen to me now—I’m not a young man——”

Charles Stewart put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no need to worry, Butterworth. I should be sorry to fail one of my father’s servants.”

Butterworth’s eyes clouded with sorrow. “Thank you, Mr. Charles—thank you.”

He rose from the chair he had been occupying. Then turned with unmistakable dignity to Clegg. “Is there anything further you want of me?” he said.

“You haven’t any idea, Butterworth, I suppose, of anybody likely to have done this?”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“I mean this.” Clegg breathed heavily in his desire to do justice to the dignity and importance of the Law. “Did Mr. Stewart have any enemies?”

“If he had, I didn’t know them. He never confided such an idea to me.”

“How was Mr. Stewart when you last saw him? Bright and cheery like?”

“Just as usual. Nothing different from the ordinary.”

“Didn’t appear to have anything on his mind?” asked Clegg.

“Not to worry him. I think he was a bit eager about the sale that was taking place.”

“Sale?” Clegg seemed momentarily at a loss.

“I told you, Sergeant,” Charles interposed. “My father intended to purchase some——”

“Quite right, sir,” apologized the Sergeant. “It was the use of the word ‘sale’ that sent me astray for the moment. He seemed ‘eager’—you say?”

“That is the word. It describes my master’s feelings exactly—that is, if I am any judge. Anything fresh towards a gratification of his hobby always made him like a schoolboy on a half-holiday.”

The Sergeant understood perfectly. But Charles Stewart, as though in doubt about this, stepped forward with an offer of assistance. “You can have access to all the correspondence relative to the intended purchases, Sergeant—with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Llewellyn will let you see it—I will instruct him to do so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Charles! I should certainly like to glance over it.”

“You shall. Do you want Butterworth any more?”

Clegg considered the matter. It was evidently a weighty one, for it occasioned much frowning and facial contortion. At last a reply was forthcoming.

“The servants, Butterworth; the other servants here—anything suspicious about any of them?” he said slowly.

“Nothing, Sergeant Clegg! There’s my wife, who acts as housekeeper—I can speak for her—I’ve been married thirty-seven years and I’m perfectly satisfied. There are four maids, Barton, Regan, Evans and Winter—the cook, Mrs. Briggs—and Maidment the gardener. Then there’s O’Connor—he assists the gardener—does odd jobs. We call him the boot-boy. Of course the last two—O’Connor and Maidment—don’t sleep here—they live in the village.”

Clegg noted the personnel and the additional information thereto with becoming solemnity. Then he deliberately closed his note-book. The gesture seemed to convey to his two companions that the preliminary investigation was finished. A nod from the Sergeant confirmed this conviction and Butterworth withdrew—gravely and silently—the perfect butler to the last.

“I’m going to get another ’phone message through to London, Sergeant,” exclaimed Charles Stewart. Clegg detected a note of anxiety in his tone. He scanned the young man’s face interrogatively. Stewart flushed, but quickly came to the point. “Look here, Sergeant Clegg—frankly I think we’re up against it. There seems to me to be some dark mystery here that will need the best brains of your profession to solve. I’m not slighting you—in any way, when I say that, either.”

Clegg sucked his pencil. “I wouldn’t say that you weren’t right. Still—we’ll be doing our best.”

He walked to the door—then turned. “I’ll make arrangements about your father”—he nodded towards the body—“and then get down to make my report. Good morning, sir! I’m very sorry, sir.”

He stepped into the corridor—then started. Butterworth was waiting there and caught him by the arm. He seemed to be laboring under some tremendous excitement. “Something I didn’t tell you, Sergeant, I last saw Mr. Stewart at ten o’clock, but I heard his voice about ten minutes after that—in that room!” He stabbed with his finger at the library. “And I heard another voice, too! I heard the voice of Miss Lennox, I’m certain!”

CHAPTER VIII.
The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction

Peter Daventry glanced at the clock on Paddington platform. He saw with undisguised relief that he was a good quarter of an hour to the good. “Curse this beastly wrist-watch,” he muttered to himself—“it gets worse every day—fairly put the wind up me that time.” He walked to the platform indicator—digested the information thereon applicable to the 6:55—“Didcot, Wantage Rd., Assynton”—and drifted over to the appropriate platform. Arrived there, he scanned the horizon for Anthony Bathurst. The platform was pretty crowded and he could not see the man he wanted. It was unlike Bathurst to arrive at 6:45 for 6:55. He argued that it was a sheer waste of very valuable minutes. Daventry commenced his second tour up the platform when a voice at his shoulder jolted his equilibrium and suddenly brought him to a standstill.

“Good evening, Mr. Daventry.” Detective-Inspector Goodall smiled genially and extended what looked like an amicable hand. “Going to try the Berkshire air?”

Peter gasped feebly but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp the extended hand—mechanically it must be admitted. Goodall clasped it warmly, but Peter could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists. “Y—es. I’m going down to Assynton.” Then his indignation mastered his surprise and his resentment. “But why the devil are you trailing me, Inspector—for it’s pretty evident you are trailing me,” he concluded with asperity.

“Not on your life, Mr. Daventry,” replied Goodall—the picture of unruffled imperturbability. “You mustn’t get jumpy like that—or I shall begin to suspect you after all.” He smiled again.

“Well then, it’s a wonderful coincidence to meet you here,” remarked Peter ruefully.

“Not so wonderful—if you think for a moment.” Peter’s face cleared magically.

“Ass that I am,” he declared. “You’re bound for the same destination, of course.”

“Now we’re talking,” said Goodall. “The local people down at Assynton have asked ‘the Yard’ to take a look at things down there—just at the very moment, too, when we at ‘the Yard’ were trying to piece the two murders together, somehow! I’m going down. But what about you, Mr. Daventry?”

“I’m representing my firm—Mr. Stewart’s son has asked me to run down.”

“How about a nice compartment, then, with a couple of corner seats? This train isn’t a ‘corridor,’ worse luck.”

“Well—as a matter of fact”—temporized Peter—“I’m waiting for somebody!”

Goodall instantly became all interest. “Really? I had no idea—you wish to be alone?”

Peter denied the idea strenuously—feeling all the time that he was heading straight for the Valley of Suspicion again. “Not at all. Only too pleased to travel with you, Inspector. I’m sure my friend will be——”

“Delighted,” said Anthony Bathurst. “Introduce me, Daventry, will you?”

Peter accepted the invitation gladly. He was downright pleased that Bathurst had turned up when he did. This fellow Goodall seemed to know a jolly sight more about a chap than was thoroughly comfortable. He was curious to see how Anthony Bathurst would be affected by Detective-Inspector Goodall. He made the introduction.

“I am honored,” remarked Bathurst. “Scotland Yard must consider the Assynton Lodge murder as extremely ‘difficult’ for it to engage the attention of Inspector Goodall.”

He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the compliment.

“You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.”

“On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.”

Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the country decorated so beautifully.

“Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!”

Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he questioned.

Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly.

But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid side.

“I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.”

Goodall’s face again registered surprise. “You seem remarkably well informed, Mr. Bathurst——”

Anthony raised an explanatory hand. “Mr. Daventry has posted me pretty soundly, thank you. He interviewed me this afternoon. I understand the main facts of the case are these.” He gave a brief but explicit resumé of the affair as it had been presented to him. “That’s about all, I fancy, Inspector?” He looked at Goodall for corroboration.

Now Goodall could have supplemented Bathurst’s information with one or two additional facts, which was precisely what Mr. Bathurst intended should happen. But the Inspector was not yet quite certain of his bearings and Mr. Bathurst’s exposition of the facts had been sufficiently masterly to prompt him to refrain. He gave Bathurst a confirmatory nod and said nothing.

“At any rate,” proceeded Anthony—“we are fortunate in one respect—that is to say from the standpoint of investigation. With regard to the first murder we do know the motive.”

“The first murder?” queried Goodall. “Which of the two was that—I should be pleased to know?”

Anthony smiled. “I was not referring to the order in which the two men were murdered—although I appreciate your point. At the moment I don’t know when Stewart was killed. All I know is that he was found dead this morning. By the term ‘the first murder’ I meant the murder of Mason, the night-watchman. It was the first of which I heard. It was the first of which you heard. It happened in London, where we live. Cigarette, Inspector? You, Daventry?” They accepted his invitation—Goodall a little nettled. He had provoked an encounter and chosen his weapons, but had not been brilliantly successful. But he had the sense to accept what Anthony had said.

“Quite right, Mr. Bathurst. I just wanted to make sure. I rather believe in making sure, you know—I tested your alibi, by the way, Mr. Daventry, this afternoon.”

Peter grinned. “Well—and how was it? I’ll guarantee you couldn’t shake it.”

“I’m not going to arrest you—sit still!” He leaned over to Bathurst with his elbows on his knees.

“You reckon then we know the motive for the Hanover Galleries job?”

“Well, it’s pretty plain, I should say. Possession of the Stuart antiques—robbery! Which makes it a clean-cut case! This end we aren’t so well off.” He looked at Goodall with that humorous twist to his mouth that his friends knew so well. When they saw it they knew that things were running pretty smoothly. “To know the motive of any crime gives you a flying start, Inspector.” He tossed his cigarette end through the window.

Goodall scratched his chin, reflectively. “That’s all very well, as far as it goes. Robbery—you say, for possession of the Stuart antiques. Worth what? I’m not an expert—but for the sake of argument we’ll put it at a matter of hundreds. And we sha’n’t be so very far out, at that! Now, Mr. Bathurst, what was there so peculiarly attractive about these antiques—or about one of them—to spell Mason’s murder?” He leaned forward still further in his seat and his voice cut across the compartment quietly insistent and definitely certain. “To kill Laurence Stewart? To send you—and you—and me, to Assynton, on a summer evening—wondering! Eh, Mr. Bathurst—tell me that!” His eyes blazed with a mingled excitement and determination, as he watched his vis-à-vis. Bathurst rubbed his hands, appreciatively!

“Excellent, Inspector, excellent. That’s a question that I should very much like to be able to answer.”

“Which of the antiques, Mr. Bathurst? Which one? And not a clue that you can call a clue as to where they’ve gone—except a sneezing woman,” he remarked semi-humorously.

“Tell me,” said Anthony, “I’m interested.” He listened carefully while Goodall—despite his opposite intention when the journey started—related the trenchant evidence of Edward Druce—night-watchman.

“So they were at the Hanover Galleries at midnight, were they? That’s important! That gives us a definite time-anchor.” He spoke to Goodall with decision. “I think with you, Inspector Goodall, that the two cases are connected without a doubt. But it’s a mistake to theorize without data—let’s wait till we pick up the threads a bit this end. As you say—which one of the three antiques were they after? It’s as bad as ‘finding the lady’—with Mary, Queen of Scots, as the lady.”

He grinned at Daventry, who had been following the interchange of ideas with the keenest possible attention. Suddenly Peter slapped his thigh with excitement.

“By Jove!” he cried, “Mary, Queen of Scots—that reminds me—what an idiot I’ve been not to tell you before.”

Then he paused with a hint of apology. “So much has happened since, that it has been driven completely out of my mind.”

“You become more interesting hourly, Daventry,” remarked Anthony. “Out with it, whatever it is—before you forget it again.” Peter waved the sarcasm aside.

“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’ people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’ ”—he grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott, by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of Scots.’ ” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me, gentlemen.”

“What happened then?” cut in Goodall.

“Nothing much,” answered Peter—“the waiters rushed to repair the damage—that was all.”

“H’m,” commented the Inspector. “I know Lironi, the proprietor of the ‘Violette,’ pretty well. If I think it important enough I could see him—he might know something about them—they might be fairly regular customers of his. It depends on what I strike down here in Berkshire.” He looked across at Bathurst, who was sitting with his head sunk on one shoulder. Suddenly the latter sat up.

“What did the woman do, Daventry—anything noticeable?”

“Well, there again—it’s hard to say, definitely. But in my opinion she was pretty savage about the incident. She certainly tried to joke it off to the waiters, but I’m fairly confident she chewed the merchant’s ear off a bit—looked to me like it,” he affirmed.

Bathurst nodded. “I thought perhaps the truest indication of the value of the incident might be supplied by the conduct of the woman.” He spoke to Inspector Goodall. “Sherlock Holmes has laid it down, Inspector, that in moments of sudden alarm and anxiety, a single woman rushes for her jewel case—a married woman for her baby. This incident throws a further light on the question. It may be added now that the married woman on occasion gives her husband wordy castigation—as the present-day ‘argot’ would put it—she ‘ticks him off’!” He smiled. “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know that this particular pair represented husband and wife, Mr. Bathurst,” protested Goodall.

“I wouldn’t bank on the marriage certificate, myself, Inspector,” returned Anthony. “But there is just this to be said for what Daventry has told us. A woman crops up in two of our little scenes. There’s a woman in this incident and there’s the woman whose thirst for information took her to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ at the identical moment when Mason and Druce, the two night-watchmen, were changing shifts.” He thought for a moment or two. “It’s certainly a point to be considered,” he concluded.

“There aren’t many ‘crooks’ that haven’t a woman in tow, nowadays,” declared Goodall. “The equality of the sexes has become very far-reaching. Still it’s deuced smart work for the same gang to have pulled off both these jobs—I can’t quite take that in myself—not yet.”

“Who’s in charge of the case down here?” queried Anthony. “Anybody you’ve run against before?”

Goodall shook his head. “A Sergeant Clegg was called to Assynton Lodge this morning—he’s the local man—he’s at Assynton. They ’phoned to ‘the Yard’ this afternoon—felt the case was a nasty one—likely to prove too big for friend Clegg. When the news reached me I told our people of Mr. Linnell’s information which seemed to link up the two cases, and it was decided then and there that I should come down.” He rubbed his cheek with his forefinger. “About twenty-four hours late,” he murmured as a kind of afterthought. “The scent cold—another man—possibly with an assistant or two—done his best to destroy most of the things that might help one—talk about ‘locking the door behind the stolen steed’—can you beat it?”

“Not too helpful, I admit, Inspector,” argued Anthony. “Still, even now there may be something to pick up—you never know—there’s always the ‘human element’ to be considered in every case.”

“All murderers don’t make glaring mistakes, Mr. Bathurst, don’t you run away with that idea—if they did—Scotland Yard would have precious few failures to record. Take my advice—don’t you go relying on the human element for mistakes—always.” He took his hat from the rack and put it on his head. “I fancy we’re running into Assynton.” He looked at his watch. “A little matter of four minutes late!”

Anthony uncoiled his length from the seat. “I didn’t mean that, Inspector! By the ‘human element’ I meant the people in the case—the circle round the dead man—the people we shall encounter—there’s always the factor of their personal psychologies. Do you follow me?”

Goodall grunted as the train drew up. Darkness was beginning to suggest itself. A heavy figure emerged from the recesses of the booking office and presented itself to them—semi-important, yet at the same time—semi-apologetic.

“Detective-Inspector Goodall?” he inquired.

“That’s me,” replied Goodall. “And you?” He peered forward at the man that had met him.

“Sergeant Clegg, Inspector.” He saluted. “And downright glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” said Inspector Goodall.

CHAPTER IX.
Mr. Bathurst Opens His Bedroom Door

Inspector Goodall motioned towards Anthony and Peter. “These two gentlemen have traveled down with me, Sergeant Clegg. They have been sent for by Mr. Charles Stewart.”

He introduced them. Sergeant Clegg was visibly impressed. “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” he announced—“though it’s a sad business, to be sure, that has thrown us together.” He turned to the Inspector. “I’ve taken the trouble to book a room for you, Inspector, at the ‘Red Dolphin’—quite an excellent place. What will you do—go straight there for now, and start work in the morning, or would you prefer to get into your stride at once?” He looked somewhat anxiously at Goodall as though he attached very great importance to his decision.

“Tell me, first of all, what you’ve done, Clegg,” said the Inspector.

“I was called to the case this morning, Inspector, and I interviewed everybody that might be termed ‘principals’—you shall have their facts almost verbatim—I’ve been polishing ’em up from my note-book. I’ve had ‘photos’ taken this afternoon of the body and of the library generally, so that poor Mr. Stewart could be taken away—and I’ve had the room fixed and fastened so that nobody can get into it.” He breathed heavily—weighed down with an acute sense of his responsibility. Goodall’s reply transported him.

“Excellent, Clegg,” he declared, “excellent. I’m for the ‘Red Dolphin’ and supper, bed and breakfast.”

“Very good, Inspector! What time shall I see you in the morning, then?”

“I’ll be along directly after breakfast—say about half-past nine. I shall probably do much better if I approach the case in the first place with a mind refreshed from a good night’s rest than if I were to commence right now—make it half-past nine, then, Clegg.”

He turned to Anthony and Peter Daventry. “You two gentlemen are going to the Lodge now, of course. Good-night. I shall see you in the morning, too.”

The three shook hands, and Goodall and Clegg swung off to the delights afforded by the hospitality of the “Red Dolphin.” Bathurst pointed to a smart car that was drawn up in the station-yard.

“Ours—I think, Daventry,” he said. An equally smart chauffeur swung from the driver’s seat and touched his cap.

“Assynton Lodge, sir?” he inquired of Bathurst.

They entered and the car purred its way to its destination. It was not long before they found themselves sweeping up the drive that took them to the main entrance.

“Nine minutes’ run,” announced Bathurst. Charles Stewart met them in the hall.

“I got your telegram, Mr. Daventry,” he said, “and I’ve arranged for dinner to be served for you directly you are ready.”

“Thanks—that’s extremely good of you,” responded Peter, “and I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve been able to bring somebody with me—as you suggested—this gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst. He will be pleased to help you in any way whatever.”

“It’s a great relief to know that,” replied Stewart. “Butterworth”—he turned to the butler—“show these gentlemen to their rooms—you’re on the second floor,” he explained. Butterworth carried out his instructions quietly and efficiently. “Dinner will be served in half an hour, gentlemen,” he announced.

“I have arranged that we three dine alone,” said Stewart upon their return. “Miss Lennox—my late father’s ward—has a bad headache and begs to be excused, and Mr. Llewellyn, my father’s secretary, dined earlier as he is very busy. My father’s sudden and tragic death has entailed, as you may guess, a tremendous amount of important correspondence.” His fingers drummed on the table-cloth. “My father’s solicitors are Messrs. Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I have had a cable sent to them to-day—till I hear from them I don’t exactly know how matters altogether stand financially.”

Peter Daventry expressed his sympathy.

“Mr. Stewart,” said Bathurst, “I am delighted to take this case for you—though, of course, very sincerely deploring the sad circumstances and your own personal loss. If it isn’t asking too much of you—would you be good enough to tell me all you know of the facts of the case—take your own time and tell me entirely in your own way?”

“Before you start, Mr. Stewart,” intervened Peter, impetuously, “have you heard of the other——” but a well-directed kick on the shin from Bathurst under the table dried up the torrent of his information quite abruptly but most effectively.

“Don’t worry Mr. Stewart, Daventry,” said Anthony gravely. “Let him tell us as I suggested.”

Stewart proceeded to tell the story of his father’s death. Soon came Bathurst’s first interruption.

“You say that when you burst open the door the key was in the lock on the inside and also that the French doors were shut and bolted?” Anthony leaned forward across the dinner table and pointed his query with keen interest.

“Yes, Mr. Bathurst. Extraordinary though it may sound—the facts were so.”

Anthony rubbed his hands together. “Most interesting,” he muttered, “most interesting. Go on.”

“My poor father,” continued Stewart with evident distress, “was seated in his chair at his desk-table—his head on his hands—his skull badly smashed—he had been dead some hours—struck down in some foul, dastardly way from behind.” He stopped and tried to control his feelings, which were obviously beginning to master him. After a short interval of silence—sympathetically observed by the two others—he continued again. “Apparently he had been writing when he was attacked, for a pen had almost fallen from his hand and on the desk in front of him lay a sheet of note-paper. On it had been written the words, ‘Urgent in the morning, M. L.’ ”

Anthony shot his second question across to the speaker. “In your father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?”

“Beyond doubt, Mr. Bathurst.” Anthony waved to him to proceed.

“In the left-hand pocket of my father’s dressing-gown was his revolver—loaded in five chambers only. None of us can remember hearing a shot during the night, so that we don’t know when the one shot was fired—in the night or on some previous occasion.”

Anthony stopped him with his hand uplifted.

“One minute, Mr. Stewart. Was it your father’s habit to carry firearms in the pocket of his dressing-gown? Have you ever known him to do it? Think carefully—this is most important.”

“Well, of course, naturally, I don’t sleep with my father—I rarely see him after he has retired for the night—but I certainly wasn’t aware that he made a habit of carrying a revolver. It doesn’t surprise me, though, to know that he had a revolver pretty handy, because we house a number of very valuable things here—still—I’ll say this—I’ve never seen him with a revolver in his hand.”

Anthony accepted the statement—then followed up with another question. “Your father was a right-handed man, of course, Mr. Stewart?”

“Yes. Always. Doctor Gunner gave it as his opinion that he had been dead about twelve hours. That wasn’t quite possible, as he was alive at ten o’clock last night.”

“Who saw him?”

Stewart hesitated for a moment. “Two of us here can prove that my father was alive round about ten o’clock last night. I spoke to him about a quarter to ten, and Butterworth, the butler, spoke to him a few minutes after ten. My father gave Butterworth instructions to lock up about that time.” Bathurst nodded.

“I see. So Butterworth was the last person to see your father alive—as far as is known?”

“Yes. A Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here with my father last night. Butterworth saw him out about ten. When I spoke to my father at nine-forty-five the Colonel was with him then, in the library.”

“An old friend of your father’s, I presume—I understand from Mr. Daventry here that it was on Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s recommendation that your father got into touch with his firm?”

“I believe that is so, Mr. Bathurst—but I should hesitate before I described the Colonel as an old friend of my father’s—his friendship only dates back to the time when we first came here.”

Anthony pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. Had Daventry known him better he would have understood from this gesture that certain features of the problem were worrying him. Then suddenly his face betrayed eagerness.

“Three more questions, Mr. Stewart, if you’ll pardon me. This sheet of note-paper found under your father’s hand—the writing on it—if my memory serves me correctly—was ‘Urgent in the morning—M. L.’—I am right, am I not?” He looked at Stewart. The latter nodded. Anthony went straight on. “This ‘M. L.’—the initials probably of somebody or something—I’ve been wondering about them. You mentioned just now, Mr. Stewart, two other members of your father’s household—a Miss Lennox, his ward, and a Mr. Llewellyn, his secretary. I feel bound to ask you if the Christian name of either of these two people begins with ‘M’—yes.” He fingered the stem of his champagne glass with undisguised approval—then carefully watched the face of his young host while he awaited his answer.

“Very curiously, Mr. Bathurst, both Mr. Llewellyn and Miss Lennox have those initials—Miss Lennox is ‘Marjorie’ and Llewellyn is ‘Morgan.’ ” He spoke with apparent composure, but Peter Daventry—most interested of spectators—was not quite sure that some, at least, of the unconcern was not deliberately assumed. He began to wonder why. Who was who in this house upon which such a tragic shadow had been cast? What dark passions had been loosed but a few hours since that had meant death, sudden and terrible, for an unsuspecting victim? What was Bathurst’s opinion? What was he thinking? Had he noticed Stewart’s counterfeit composure? Bathurst, however, appeared to be tremendously interested. He lifted his eyebrows at the piquancy of the situation as revealed to him.

“Really?” he said. “We are confronted with two ‘M. L.’s’ then. Now that’s distinctly fascinating.” He paused. “Was it a message, Mr. Stewart, do you think, to either of them—or even——” he stopped and pondered—eyes narrowed.

“A message or an instruction, Mr. Bathurst, would almost certainly affect Llewellyn, Mr. Bathurst—I think we may safely discard any idea of Miss Lennox being implicated.” He spoke quite quietly, but yet Peter Daventry fell to introspection once again. He felt certain that he was able to detect a tinge of anxiety in the voice—almost, in fact, that in what Stewart had said the wish had been father to the thought. But Bathurst, to all appearances, accepted the situation as Stewart had presented it. He went to another question.

“You stated a little while since that your father had a number of valuable things in the house. Quite a natural thing for a man of his wealth, of course. Has anything been stolen? Anything missed?”

Stewart shook his head in denial of the idea. “As far as we know, Mr. Bathurst—nothing has been taken. Certainly no money has been stolen. My father’s personal jewelry is in his bedroom—untouched—just where he left it.”

Anthony thought for a moment. “Papers! Documents! Was there any evidence that anything of that nature had been taken from the library? Did any drawers appear to have been ransacked?”

“There were no signs of disorder in the library at all. Everything there seemed quite normal.”

But Bathurst persisted. “Your father’s collection, Mr. Stewart—that was very valuable, I believe. Have steps been taken to see that this is intact? Where is the collection kept?”

“In what we call the Museum Room—next to the library. I don’t know that it occurred to me—or even to any of us—to go in there—there was no connection you see.” He looked across at Anthony.

“Is the Museum Room kept locked?” demanded the latter.

“Not necessarily during the day,” came the answer. “My father might be in and out several times during an ordinary day—he might even have been in there last night with Colonel Leach-Fletcher for all we know. Butterworth will be able to tell us,” he concluded, rather lamely, Daventry thought, “we can ask Butterworth if he locked the Museum Room when he locked up last night.”

“You don’t mind if I smoke?” put in Bathurst. “The key of this Museum Room now—where would it be kept—in the door?” He lit his cigarette, and tossed the match into an ash-tray.

“No—I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure not. The key of a room like that would be hung up each night in Butterworth’s service-room. He would unlock the room some time during the following morning.”

“So that we may say—anybody had access to it—knowing that the key was kept there?”

“I suppose so,” replied Stewart. “But I’m quite certain the Museum Room door was shut all right when the alarm was given this morning.” He sat back in his chair firmly as though to give point to his words.

“That’s pretty conclusive then,” admitted Anthony. “Still—I think we’ll have a look at this Museum Room—nevertheless! You see it might supply that motive I’m looking for.” He rubbed his chin with his finger. “Otherwise——”

Stewart rose from his chair at the head of the table. “Would you care to come and look now, Mr. Bathurst?”

Anthony motioned him back again. “In the morning, Mr. Stewart, in the morning. That will be time enough. Tell me—I’m rather curious to know—the point is of extreme importance—have you any list or catalogue of your father’s collection?”

Stewart looked somewhat surprised. “It would be some task for you to go through all the things in the Museum Room, Mr. Bathurst—but I believe I am right in saying that Llewellyn has compiled something in the way of a catalogue. You shall see a copy in the morning, if you would care to.”

“I should—very much,” responded Anthony. “I have just the glimmering of an idea—that’s all—and I think it’s just possible the catalogue may help me.” He looked at Daventry, who had been trying hard to follow him—unsuccessfully.

“What started you off?” inquired Peter—“that key of the Museum Room business? Personally, I can’t see anything much——”

Bathurst interrupted. “No—not that, Daventry. I happened to be thinking about ‘M. L.’—that was all.” He rubbed his hands as the idea took shape. “And I’ll lay a guinea to a gooseberry,” he proceeded, “that I’m ‘warm’ as the youngsters say. If I’m not—well, then, we shall have to start all over again.”

He smiled at his two companions. “But we sha’n’t have to. You see.”

Stewart did not appear to share this piece of optimism—he shook his head rather hopelessly, but Peter Daventry remembered the judgment of his brother Gerald and was able to catch something of the Bathurst tradition.

“One last question,” said Anthony. “What was the opinion of the Sergeant who came along this morning about the weapon with which the crime was committed? Did he have any ideas about that, do you know? Did he seem confident of making any arrest?”

Stewart dismissed the suggestion immediately it was made. “I was quite unimpressed by him. In fact that was the chief reason why I asked Mr. Daventry’s people to help me and why I suggested Scotland Yard could do worse than have a look at things. I don’t think he formed any ideas about the crime at all! The question you have just raised about the weapon that was used puzzled the Sergeant, I should say, from my observation of him, pretty considerably. There wasn’t a trace of anything!” He seemed to have almost reached his limit of physical endurance, and Anthony was quick to detect it.

“Daventry,” he said, “I’m afraid I haven’t shown Mr. Stewart too much consideration—he’s worn out, and I must leave any further questions till to-morrow morning.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “It’s well past ten and we’re all tired. A good night’s rest will do us all good.” He rose and walked across to his young host with outstretched hand. “Good-night, Mr. Stewart, and my most sincere sympathy! I know it’s easy to say that, but I’ll say something else as well.” He paused for a second and his jaw set with the lines of indomitable purpose. “I have every hope, even at this early stage of the case, of getting the handcuffs on the right wrists—which should comfort you a little!”

Stewart was very pale when he answered, and his answer was brief. “Thank you, Mr. Bathurst. Good-night!”

Peter added his salutations and they made their way upstairs.

“No need to trouble Butterworth,” exclaimed Anthony, “we know our rooms. Here’s mine—there’s yours, Daventry. Good-night!”

Anthony walked to the window and opened it. He was fond of darkness and it was just beginning to get dark. Darkness and its attendant tranquillity he always found invaluable conditions for the process of concentration—he had often discovered the solution to a mystifying problem out of this communion. He smoked a cigarette through and lit another. “What was it,” he said to himself as he stood there by the open window, “that caused Stewart to come downstairs and enter the library? What happened in the library to make him scrawl the message that he described as ‘urgent’?” He commenced a third cigarette. “And who trod softly behind as he sat there writing—and killed him?” He undressed and got into bed. “A pretty little problem—especially when we think of the Hanover Galleries affair on top.” That was his last conscious thought before he slept. He had the knack of getting to sleep almost instantaneously and also the complementary faculty of awaking at the slightest sound. He was destined to awake suddenly that night. And he knew instantly and instinctively what had awakened him—a stealthy step had gone past his bedroom door—he was certain of it! He looked at the luminous face of his wrist-watch. “Twenty-two minutes past one,” he muttered. “Not an ordinary time for legitimate night-wanderings.” He tiptoed to his bedroom door and drew it very slightly ajar; then listened intently for what seemed like ages. It was very quiet beneath him. Had the step been on its way back? Suddenly he heard a sound that sent his heart racing perilously—somebody was ascending the stairs! He shut the door silently and held the handle tight. The step passed—almost noiselessly. Anthony waited a second, then pulled his door gently open, and looked out on to the corridor. He was just able to distinguish the figure of a man, entering the room next but one. A man—slim and of good height. Judged by his walk—comparatively young. Anthony whistled very softly, as he sat on the side of his bed to think things over. “Now, who the devil was that?” he muttered, “and why does he wander o’ nights?” In the morning at breakfast his first query was answered.

“Let me introduce you,” said Charles Stewart. “Mr. Bathurst—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—my late father’s secretary.”

CHAPTER X.
The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle

Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle too quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr. Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum” of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road. He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air. Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door. Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man, with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his forehead.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for takin’ what may appear a liberty. But I should like a word with you, sir.” He looked behind him somewhat anxiously, then drew Bathurst a few yards farther away from the foundry door. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, aren’t you one of the gentlemen what’s lookin’ into matters up at the Lodge?” He jerked with his thumb in the direction of “up the hill.”

Anthony regarded the black-bearded giant with curious interest. “I haven’t the least idea how you know that,” he replied, “but you’re quite right—I am! News seems to travel quickly in these parts.”

Blackbeard’s teeth flashed in a smile. “No great mystery about that, sir,” he explained. “I saw you in the company of Sergeant Clegg last night with another gentleman that looked uncommonly like a police-detective. And I ain’t too bad at puttin’ two and two together.” He grinned again.

“I see,” said Anthony. “And what was it you wanted to tell me? I take it that there is something—you haven’t called me in here merely to wish me good morning?” He eyed the foundry-man quizzically.

“No, sir, I haven’t, and that’s a fact! And what I’ve got to say, I’d sooner say to you than to the police, for I’ve no love for that fraternity—you can take it from me.” He spat with some vigor as a garnish to his remark; then proceeded to embellish what he had said. “Especially for Sergeant Amos Clegg. But I like the look of you, sir, and when my boy told me what he told me yesterday midday I advised him to keep a still tongue in his head till I told him to loosen it. When I spotted you last night, sir—I made up my mind that I’d do the tellin’ and to you!”

“Thank you for the compliment,” returned Anthony smiling. “I appreciate it, I assure you. I shall be very pleased to hear what you wish to tell me. Fire away!” The giant glanced round, then lowered his voice appreciably. “My name’s Michael O’Connor and I’m the father of Patrick O’Connor—him as they call boot-boy up at the Lodge—Mr. Stewart’s place. Patrick was eighteen on the 17th of March and has worked for poor Mr. Stewart for three or four months now. He does lots of odd jobs about the place and gives the gardener a hand—I’m tellin’ you this just to give you a rough idea of who he is—so to speak. Now Patrick’s a good lad—though he’s mine and say it I shouldn’t—honest and willin’. He gets sent out a good deal, so Mr. Stewart provided him with a bicycle to run his errands on. He don’t sleep up at the Lodge and he’s supposed to leave the bicycle there when he gets away of an evening—which is usually about seven. The machine goes into old Maidment’s potting-shed. Maidment’s the gardener. That’s where Patrick put it the night before last.” He stroked his beard and pushed his face nearer to Bathurst. “When he went to the Lodge yesterday mornin’ and heard all about the murder there wasn’t much work for him, as you may well guess—so he thought he’d give his bicycle a bit of a clean-up. What does he find when he looks at it?” He paused dramatically and drew himself to his full height. “That it had been used by somebody since my Patrick left it in the shed.” He spat again. “And how do you think he knew?” he chuckled—then without giving Bathurst time to venture an opinion, continued, “Look down there, sir,” he said, pointing down the road that wound into Assynton village. “See the steam-roller?” Bathurst both saw and heard it—puffing and grinding after the manner of steam-rollers and flaunting the White Horse of Kent. “The road into Assynton is bein’ done up,” continued O’Connor—“with tarred macadam. The sun for two or three days now has been melting the new stuff that’s been put down—it sticks to your boots if you walk in it. And my Patrick tells me that the tires of his bicycle were all marked with it.” He concluded on a note of triumph. Then looked at Bathurst with an invitation for approval.

“Good lad,” contributed Anthony. “He’s told nobody besides you?” O’Connor shook his leonine head.

“He was a bit frightened-like, I think, sir, so he brought his troubles to his father—I teach my young’uns to do that! But it proves this, sir, somebody used the bicycle the night of the murder.”

Anthony nodded in corroboration. “I suppose he’s sure he didn’t pick the stuff up himself on some errand?”

“Absolutely, sir. He says he came into the village twice the day before yesterday, and took great care to miss the part of the road that’s been tarred. But a person riding in the dark, sir, wouldn’t notice it—’specially if he had somethin’ on his mind.” He sniffed—and the sniff carried a wealth of meaning.

“Perfectly true,” agreed Anthony, “and I’m much obliged to you for the information—this road into the village leads straight to the station, doesn’t it—it was getting dark when I drove up last night?”

“That’s right, sir,” replied O’Connor—“straight up through Assynton.”

Bathurst pushed a Treasury note into his hand, which, after some demur, he accepted.

“I’ll be getting back now, O’Connor, and I’ll have a quiet chat with Patrick at the first opportunity. I’ll tell him you’ve seen me—that will establish my credentials.”

He swung back in the direction of the Lodge—musing over the encounter, and over the incident of the footsteps during the night. When Stewart introduced Morgan Llewellyn and he was able to identify the gentleman as the wanderer who had disturbed his sleep, he concluded that he had quite enough to think over for his first morning. Peter greeted him at the breakfast-table.

“Been out, Bathurst? So early?”

“Just a short stroll, Daventry. I was anxious to have a look round and I hadn’t the heart to rout you out, old man! I went across the downs a bit and worked down towards the village.” He turned to Stewart. “The birds were simply wonderful. I even enjoyed those melancholy ‘pee-wits’!”

“We’ll get breakfast over as soon as we possibly can, gentlemen,” exclaimed Stewart. “I expect the Scotland Yard representative will be up here pretty early. I should like you to be present, Mr. Bathurst, when he enters the library—Sergeant Clegg closed the room up, you know, when he left yesterday.”

Llewellyn sniffed contemptuously. “A brilliant piece of work—that! One of us might have wanted to use the room—for a legitimate purpose, I mean.” He wiped the glasses of his pince-nez with his silk handkerchief. As he did so, Bathurst observed the peculiar quality of his eyes and at the same time formed the opinion that Mr. Morgan Llewellyn might very well prove to be a dangerous customer if things didn’t please him over-well.

“Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony, addressing his host, “what sort of a lad is Patrick O’Connor—the boot-boy?”

Stewart stared at him with a certain strain of amazement on his face.

“Really,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were sufficiently acquainted with our staff here to be able to ask that question! I suppose it’s a case of the early bird, eh?”

Anthony’s grey eyes twinkled delightfully! “We all have our little secrets, Mr. Stewart,” he responded. “You mustn’t probe me too thoroughly—tell me rather of Master O’Connor.” He looked round at Peter Daventry—“He’s got a fine name, you know, Daventry—‘Patrick O’Connor’—hark to the music of the ‘r’ and the ‘n’!”

“Quite a reliable lad,” came Stewart’s answer. “As far as I know. Certainly I know nothing unfavorable.”

“What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony.

“About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?”

“On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely.

He felt the glances of the three men fixed intently on him.

“Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time,” declared Llewellyn, “though how exactly you’ve been to work, I can’t guess.”

“I sha’n’t ask you to,” laughed Anthony. “It might be trying you too highly, and I mustn’t do that.”

Peter Daventry began to wish that he hadn’t slept so soundly—Mr. Bathurst’s methods were beginning to fascinate him. Breakfast over, he came across and joined Anthony. The latter went up and spoke quietly to Charles Stewart.

“By all means,” was Stewart’s reply, “I’ll let you know directly I want you.”

“Come and have a breath of air, Daventry,” said Anthony. “It’s a perfectly wonderful morning.”

They strolled out into the garden; Anthony took a cigarette and handed his case to his companion. “I want a few minutes’ conversation with this boot-boy, Patrick O’Connor—I have a fancy that it may prove to be somewhat enlightening—and don’t forget, Daventry, anything we may hear, either now or later on, we’ll keep to ourselves, unless we decide otherwise.”

Peter saluted with mock gravity. “I’ll be the soul of tacit discretion,” he exclaimed. “Have you really stumbled across a clue already?”

Bathurst’s face relaxed into a smile. “Clues are tumbling over each other—I’ve really had the luck of the old gentleman himself up to the moment. The ball’s running altogether too kindly—doubtless I shall get a rude awakening soon. Come over on the grass there and I’ll tell you something!”

Peter accepted his bidding with alacrity. Anthony carefully chose another cigarette. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, speaking in low tones, “before we go across to find O’Connor. But first—a question! How did you sleep last night? Anything disturb you?”

Peter knitted his brows. “No! Nothing! But I was dog-tired and slept like a top—whichever way that may actually be.”

Anthony pointed across to the wall of the garden against which could be seen nestling a burden of magnificent nectarines. “Be interested—apparently——in something that I’m showing you—I don’t want anybody in the house to think I’m discussing the case with you—for all I know we are being watched.”

Peter grimaced, but began to play his part as per instructions. “The situation is becoming decidedly interesting,” he muttered. “Why do you ask me about how I slept?”

Anthony made a gesture with his arm towards another part of the garden before he answered. “At twenty-two minutes past one this morning I awoke very suddenly. I’m a very light sleeper and the slightest sound is sufficient to wake me. What I had heard was a step passing my bedroom door. Of course I couldn’t be sure which direction the steps had taken. But I slipped out of bed and opened my door. I stood listening for some time and then I heard the steps coming back. Whoever it was, was coming upstairs again. Naturally I had to bolt back into my bedroom, but I held the door handle so that I could open it quickly and noiselessly immediately the prowler had passed. I just had time to see the gentleman disappear into the room next to yours. You may guess that I went back to bed and did a little bit of quiet thinking.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Peter. “The plot thickens! Who the blazes was it—any idea?”

“I know who it was,” replied Anthony. “It was the gentleman who had ‘brekker’ with us this morning—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn! You may remember what he thought about the library being shut up.”

Peter whistled softly. “You mean that he was trying to get in there, in the night?”

“I think it extremely probable,” declared Anthony. “And the question is what is it that’s attracting him there? That’s what we’ve got to find out—that’s why I’ve told you.”

“Did he get in do you think?” queried Peter, “because if he did, the mischief’s done.”

“Not he,” grinned Anthony. “Sergeant Clegg saw to that, quite thoroughly. Now come along over to the other side. We’ll see if we can run across Patrick O’Connor.”

Maidment, the gardener, was earthing up potatoes in the kitchen garden as they approached. He straightened himself as he wished them “Good morning.”

“O’Connor,” he said, in answer to Anthony’s question. “You’ll find him up there in the potting-shed.” He pointed past the cucumber frames that lay on his right to a shed at the end of the path. “Perhaps you’d like me to be accompanying you?” he continued. “Maybe I’ll be able to help you?”

Anthony waved his offer on one side. “Thanks—but we’ll see him alone—you stay here.”

As they reached the shed, a tall lad stepped out, and Bathurst immediately recognized that here was a case of inherited physique. He seemed surprised to see his visitors and made as though to turn back into the potting-shed.

Anthony touched him on the arm—then bent down and whispered something into his ear. The lad’s face cleared and he beckoned them inside.

“You gentlemen gave me a bit of a start,” he declared. “I’m a bit jumpy I suppose since yesterday. This sort of thing gets on your nerves, you know, sir—you can’t help it.”

Peter Daventry wondered what the message was that Bathurst had passed on. What possible connection could there be between the two of them? But his wonderings were summarily cut short. Anthony’s next remark showed that he was speedily getting to business.

“Where is the bicycle, O’Connor?”

O’Connor walked across to the farther corner and wheeled the machine down to them. He pointed to both front and back tires. “There you are, sir! You can see for yourself!”

Anthony went down on his haunches and smelt the tires. “Quite certain you didn’t pick it up yourself, O’Connor—on another part of the road, for instance?”

“I’ll take my dyin’ oath I never did, sir. The day before the murder was discovered I went down into Assynton twice—once just before lunch time and the second time about a quarter-past four. I was extry careful about riding over the new road because I hates my bike all messed and mucked up, so I jumped off when I came to it and wheeled it along the path. As for pickin’ it up anywhere else, sir—there ain’t no other part of the road round here, sir, what’s bein’ done up.” His eyes flashed, and Anthony realized again that here stood the son of his father.

“Do you always keep the machine in this shed?” he asked.

Patrick O’Connor nodded an affirmative. “Always, sir!”

Anthony threw a critical glance round the potting-shed. “When you came in yesterday morning and found your bicycle like that—was there anything else here that caught your attention—was the shed just as usual—everything in its place—nothing touched or disturbed?”

O’Connor thought for a moment—then shook his head. “Not that I noticed, sir.”

Anthony walked to the door and looked out; then he retraced his steps. “Re bicycles, O’Connor! Are there any other bicycles kept at Assynton Lodge—or is this the only one on the premises?”

O’Connor flung his head back with decision. “This is the only cycle here, sir, so that whoever used it on the night of the murder either struck lucky or knew that it was in here.” He lowered his voice on the last few words. Peter saw Anthony’s face as O’Connor spoke—then he turned sharply. Maidment, arriving apparently from the clouds, was framed against the doorway of the potting-shed. His approach had been noiseless and unexpected, for even Bathurst seemed slightly taken off his guard!

“Mr. Charles’s compliments,” announced the gardener, “and he will be glad to see you two gentlemen in the library.”

CHAPTER XI.
With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle

Stewart met them at the French doors. “Inspector Goodall and Sergeant Clegg are here already. We shall have to postpone our visit to the Museum Room till later. Come in, will you?” Clegg and Goodall had already got to work.

“Nothing has been touched, sir,” said the former, “since I was first called in. Except for the removal of the dead man, the room is exactly as it was yesterday morning.”

“Good,” replied Goodall. “I’ve read all your notes on the case—the key was in the lock on the inside when the door was burst open, and the bolts of the French doors were securely shot. Darned peculiar!”

Stewart made as if to offer an explanation of something, but the Inspector checked him. “I’m fully acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, sir! I’ve read Sergeant Clegg’s notes thoroughly—not only those concerning the crime itself but also those dealing with the interviews he had with the various people when he was here—so you can write me down thoroughly au fait with the whole business.” Stewart bowed. Goodall took a tape measure from his pocket and walked to the chair where Laurence Stewart had been murdered. “Is this chair exactly in position?” he queried of the Sergeant. Clegg came and surveyed the situation gravely. Then announced his opinion.

“As near as makes no odds, Inspector.”

Goodall first of all measured from the chair to the library door and then from the chair to the French doors. He then examined the lock of the door and the bolts of the other two doors.

“H’m,” he said—then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Doctor’s report”—he drew a document from his breast-pocket and perused it for a moment or two—“states that your father was struck three times, Mr. Stewart. The first blow rendered him unconscious, in all probability, Doctor Gunner thinks, and the second and third finished him completely. Mr. Bathurst—you might help me in a little experiment. I’m going to try to reconstruct the crime.” He looked at Anthony and did not wait for his reply. “Sit here, will you, as Mr. Stewart sat. Now you’re Mr. Stewart and I’m the murderer.” He walked back to the French doors, which he opened, and then went outside, pulling them together. He then opened them noiselessly and tiptoed across the heavy pile carpet. He reached Bathurst and raised his hand as though to strike. “Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Not your steps—I heard you breathing—that was all—but of course I was aware that you were advancing on me. I can quite believe the murdered man was taken by surprise in that way and heard nothing.” He rose from the chair. “Congratulations, Inspector.”

Goodall came up to the desk. “Is this the piece of note-paper, Clegg? Just where you found it?”

“Yes, Inspector!” Bathurst joined the Inspector. The message was there just as it had been written by the dead man. Bathurst let the Inspector read it—then extended his hand for it. “May I see it?”

Goodall passed it over. Anthony produced his magnifying glass and then covered all the writing with another sheet of paper—that is to say, from “urgent” to “M. L.” Then he carefully examined with his glass the part of the paper immediately following the letter “L.” Peter Daventry watched him curiously. After a moment or two he put down the sheet of paper and replaced his magnifying glass. Clegg’s eyelid flickered as he caught a glance from Goodall, but the latter gave no other sign of interest. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the bookcase—then suddenly turned on his heel.

“Where’s that revolver you mentioned, Clegg—let’s have a look at it.” The Sergeant took it from the right-hand drawer of the desk.

“This was in Mr. Stewart’s left-hand pocket,” he declared—“and one shot has been fired.” He passed it across to the Inspector. “That’s not to say it was fired at the time of the murder,” rejoined his superior. “All the evidence you’ve collected is absolutely contrary.”

“You mean that nobody admits having heard it?” intervened Anthony.

“I do,” said Goodall.

“With your permission, Inspector—not quite the same thing,” came the reply.

Goodall fingered his cheek. “No sign of the bullet, Mr. Bathurst, if you’re suggesting that a shot was fired in here.”

Clegg smiled broadly. There was no gainsaying the Inspector’s last remark. Anthony shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and went back to the desk again. Peter noticed that his eyes were sweeping backwards and forwards over that particular part of it directly in front of where Stewart’s head had rested. Suddenly he picked up the ink-bowl and held it up carefully to the light. He swirled the ink round and round in the bowl three or four times and watched its black eddy with the greatest keenness. Apparently what he saw gave him entire satisfaction—which his face showed when he replaced the ink-bowl on the desk. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “You were quite right, Inspector, regarding your theory of the crime. I hope to put my hand on the——”

“Criminal, Mr. Bathurst?” broke in Charles Stewart. “What makes you so optimistic?”

“No! I was about to say ‘on the weapon,’ Mr. Stewart. But the other will naturally follow.”

“I’m rather curious to follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall. He walked to the desk and picked up the ink-bowl. “Ah!” he muttered, after a moment—“I think I see your drift.” He nodded his head two or three times—then came back to Charles Stewart again. “I’m going into the garden for a few moments—when I return I should like to see Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn, your father’s secretary. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell them.” He passed through the French doors—the indefatigable Clegg at his heels. Anthony and Peter watched them go through the rockery and disappear out of sight. “Where’s he gone now?” questioned Peter.

“He’s bound to have a look outside,” was Anthony’s reply. “He may pick up the O’Connor information—he should do—he’s a pretty shrewd fellow.”

Out of sight of the library, Clegg touched the Inspector on the coat-sleeve. “What I wanted to tell you was this. I wanted you to come into it fresh—with no suspicions so to speak—so I didn’t tell you everything till you’d had a bit of a look round.” He gazed round warily to make sure that they were not overlooked or overheard. Then he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and handed Goodall a dainty lace handkerchief. “I found that caught in the curtains hanging by those French doors yesterday morning,” he explained breathlessly. “Do you see the initials? That belongs to the dead man’s ward—Miss Lennox.”

Goodall handled it with great interest. “Now that’s very curious, Clegg,” he observed. “Miss Lennox—eh? And I understand that Butterworth, the butler, accuses her of having been with the dead man at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder—h’m. She, in her turn, puts the rough edge of her tongue round Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—h’m! Clegg—where the hell are we getting to?”

Clegg coughed discreetly. “There was the other point I mentioned, Inspector, on top of all that,” he pointed out steadfastly. Goodall considered for a second. Then he remembered what Clegg meant.

“She attempted to get into the library you mean, don’t you, when you left your man on duty there?”

“Not a doubt about it,” replied the Sergeant.

“Before I see her or this secretary fellow—I’m going to have a few words with some of the servants——come along with me—we may perhaps pick something up that may be valuable.”

Clegg fell into step. Goodall went on to outline his difficulties. “There’s one feature of the case that’s rather strange, Clegg. Nothing appears to have been stolen from here at all—no search seems to have been made for anything—there’s not a drawer ransacked or disturbed. Now in this other affair that I told you about—this Hanover Galleries murder—three objects that the dead man here was desperately keen on getting hold of were stolen—they were apparently the motive for the murder. Yet nothing’s gone from here.” He turned to Clegg somewhat impatiently. The Sergeant wagged his big head solemnly.

“Aye,” he conceded—“that’s the very identical point that struck me. But”—he thrust his face very close to Goodall’s—“is it certain that the two murders are connected—have you never heard tell of the long arm of coincidence?” He pronounced the last word to rhyme with “guidance,” much to Goodall’s professional disgust.

“No,” affirmed the latter, “there’s no doubt in my own mind that there is a connection somewhere, and it’s up to me to find it—I can’t agree with your coincidence theory, Clegg.”

The latter pushed his chest out and accepted Goodall’s statement as final, registering at the same time a mental resolution that for the future he would emit no theories. He would listen!

Anthony, meanwhile, was still at work in the library, finding Peter Daventry a highly appreciative audience. “The important features of the case as I see them are these, Daventry. (a) The one shot fired from Stewart’s revolver and the taking of that revolver by Clegg from the left-hand pocket of Stewart’s dressing-gown. (b) The use of Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle some time during the evening or some time during the night. (c) The message left by the dead man with its reference to ‘M. L.’ (d) The dirty condition of the ink in the ink-bowl. (e) The apparently impossible conditions under which the murder was committed—the room is locked on the inside at both exits.” He blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Add to that the somewhat unusual and rather absorbing detail—the fascination for Stuart antiques, themselves associated with a particularly brutal murder in London almost contemporaneously—and we have all the ingredients for as pretty a problem as ever was.” Then suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. “By Jove,” he said, “that coal cabinet, Daventry. I wonder if it’s worth while looking in there—it’s just possible the murderer may have——” He dashed across to the coal cabinet. It was of the type that swung outwards on a hinge. He pulled it towards him. Then he knelt down in front of it. Taking a sheet of note-paper from his pocket, he very carefully picked out some objects from the contents of the scuttle. Daventry wasn’t able to see what they were as Anthony placed them on the piece of paper. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer. “What is it, Bathurst? What have you found in there?”

“A long shot,” chuckled Anthony, “but it’s happened to have come off.” He held the paper out to his companion. “It struck me when I looked at that coal-scuttle just now, that a person clearing little pieces of dirt and mud from the surface of that table”—he pointed to the desk where Stewart had been found dead—“might very easily dispose of them in the scuttle—it might well be the handiest and most convenient place—look here then!” Daventry looked at the paper held out on the palm of Anthony’s hand. There were seven or eight dried pellets of mud and four small light brown stones such as may be found in any garden. Anthony went on with his explanation. “There isn’t very much coal there—as you may see if you look—fires have been discontinued for some time now, I expect—so it didn’t give me very much trouble to find these chaps.” He smiled with infinite satisfaction, but Peter Daventry wasn’t too clear at all. “I can understand that part of the business,” he conceded—“where I’m floundering is over the part of the affair before we come to that. I haven’t the foggiest notion how you ever deduced their existence!”

“When I get the chance,” replied Anthony, “I think I shall be able to show you at least one other stone just like these four little fellows that I’ve taken from the coal-scuttle—I can’t now—the Inspector and Clegg may be back at any minute.” He walked to the French doors and looked out—then turned back to Daventry. “There they come,” he exclaimed.

“That stone, Bathurst,” cut in Peter hastily.

“Is in this room,” replied Anthony, “but not a word for the time being.”

Clegg stepped into the room, immediately followed by Goodall. To Daventry’s amazement, Anthony went straight over to them. “Well, Inspector, what did you make of the matter of O’Connor’s bicycle?”

“You rather take my breath away, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall very quietly. “Permit me to return your question—what did you?”

“I had no doubt you would pick it up,” he said, “and I’ll answer your question quite frankly.” He walked across to the bookcase, and standing with his back to it had his three hearers in front of him, Peter on his right, and the two officers on his left. “O’Connor’s bicycle, gentlemen, was used last night to carry somebody from this house into Assynton. In my opinion it carried the murderer of Stewart—if not the murderer, certainly his or her accomplice—but I fancy the murderer.” He watched the three faces to see the effect of his opinion. Goodall became critical at once.

“Who placed the bicycle in the shed then?” he asked cautiously.

Bathurst’s reply came just as quickly. “The murderer, of course.”

Goodall screwed up his face as though unconvinced. “You mean, then, that the murderer returned—that the murderer lives——”

Anthony interrupted him. “I mean that if my theory holds good—that the murderer used the machine and not an accomplice—he is either in this house now or very near it. He or she.”

But Goodall stuck to his guns. “But why go away to come back again?—that’s what beats me.”

“More than one reason might supply a reasonable answer to that question, Inspector. The murderer may have wished to hide something, for instance. He may have gone to meet somebody even. Thirdly, he may have gone to deliver an important message.” He paused to consider the three possibilities he had named. Then looked straight across to Goodall. “I am inclined to the third suggestion myself, Inspector. Rather strongly as a matter of fact.” He came away from the bookcase, giving Peter Daventry an impression—vague perhaps—that the final word had been spoken.

Goodall shook his head rather doubtfully. “Theories are all very well in their way, Mr. Bathurst—but if I were to go chasing after all the theories I have put in front of me—I should be well set to work—can’t you give me something more definite on which your theories have been based—something more tangible?”

Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets with a gesture of impatience. “Of course I can, Inspector. Surely you don’t think I make statements of this kind irresponsibly? ’Pon my soul, I feel rather like picking up your challenge and being much more explicit than I had intended to be.” He paced to the bookcase and then came back again. “That bicycle was almost certainly ridden into Assynton after the murder had been committed. For the reason, in my opinion, that immediate communication had to be established between this end of the tangle and the other—or if you prefer it—between Assynton Lodge and the people that murdered Mason at the Hanover Galleries the same night.” He paused, and Peter Daventry noticed that Inspector Goodall was listening keenly and critically—punctuating Anthony’s remarks with sharp, quick movements of the head. “I deduce an urgent telephone message,” continued Anthony, “something had happened here that made instantaneous action imperative—the ’phone was the only way. Obviously the ’phone in the house itself must not be used—the nearest is in Assynton village—the nearest that would also be safest. If you like, I will embroider my theory somewhat.” He smiled as he sensed the improvement in his “atmosphere.” He was beginning to “get over!” “I deduce also, Inspector, that this urgent telephone message was very probably to an hotel. I think that we are dealing with a dangerous set of criminals who mean to stick at nothing to gain their ends and who in all likelihood had prepared their plans very thoroughly to meet all emergencies. If quick telephone communication formed a link in their connection system those of them who are conducting the operations from the other end were probably stopping at a quiet hotel. They don’t appeal to me as likely to be permanent residents in the West End of London, so I incline to the probability of an hotel.” He turned to Inspector Goodall decisively. “Let me make a suggestion, Inspector! Try to trace a telephone message from Assynton about 11:20 on the night before last.” Goodall broke in with an exclamation of incredulity. But Bathurst held up his hand and went straight on. “A message to an hotel—I’ll give you a list that I fancy will contain the identical one.”

Goodall raised his hands. “You travel a darned sight too fast, Mr. Bathurst. Hold hard a minute—there’s a pretty wide gulf of difference between outlining your suggestions and putting them into solid practice. For instance, you assert quite confidently that the time was 11:20. How——”

“Tut-tut, man,” broke in Anthony—“that shouldn’t surprise you. Your mysterious woman arrived at the Hanover Galleries at twelve o’clock or thereabouts—I’ve endeavored to fill in the time with what happened here between ten o’clock and then—I put the murder at eleven o’clock approximately, and I’ve allowed twenty minutes for the cycle ride.”

Goodall nodded slowly as Anthony made his points. “Granted all that—Mr. Bathurst—I don’t say I accept it all—how about that list of hotels you talk about drawing up and handing to me—there isn’t exactly a famine in hotels in London—it seems to me it will be ‘some list.’ ” He smiled at Anthony with just a tinge of sarcasm.

“Just a little matter of geometry, Inspector,” came the somewhat baffling answer.

“Geometry?” queried Goodall.

“Yes,” said Anthony, “with a given center and a radius say of one mile—describe a circle—the hotel will be found within that circle—the lady was at work on the real business by midnight—remember.” The Inspector’s face cleared.

“Of course! I see now what you mean. Your center will be the Hanover Galleries?”

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Bathurst.

CHAPTER XII.
The Second Screen of Mary Stuart

Goodall turned to Clegg and fired off a rapid fusillade of instructions to which that worthy gave the most respectful attention. “At once, Inspector?” he questioned.

“Quicker than that,” snapped Goodall, “and stand no nonsense from anybody.”

Anthony gave him a glance of approval. Then watched Clegg depart with heavy and important tread. “Tell Mr. Charles Stewart we should like to speak to him for a moment,” he called to the Sergeant as he made his way towards the hall—“you’ll find him close handy.” Goodall then came forward. “I want Mr. Stewart,” he said. “He promised that I should interview Miss Lennox and the late Mr. Stewart’s secretary—also I’m afraid I’ve been keeping him waiting.”

“Would you mind postponing the interviews for a little while, Inspector?” asked Anthony. “I’ve another suggestion to make.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Please yourself, of course,” proceeded Anthony—“have them in now by all means if you consider it very important. But what I was going to suggest was this. I should very much like to have a look at this Museum Room of Mr. Stewart’s. I’ve got a shrewd idea that it won’t prove to be entirely unprofitable.”

Goodall thought for a moment and then signified his agreement. “Very well, Mr. Bathurst—that will suit me very well—I can see the others later.”

As he spoke Charles Stewart returned.

“That trifling matter of the Museum Room, Mr. Stewart,” exclaimed Anthony. “Did you remember to get that little catalogue from Mr. Llewellyn that you promised me? If you did I should like to go in there and have that tour of inspection I discussed with you last evening.”

Stewart made an exclamation of regret. “My apologies, Mr. Bathurst, it slipped my memory—but I’ll soon rectify that.” He touched the bell. “Mr. Llewellyn,” he said as the secretary appeared, “didn’t you compile for my father some time ago a catalogue of the contents of the Museum Room?”

Anthony watched the secretary’s face with the utmost intentness as he replied. “Yes, Mr. Charles. That is so! Your father was very keen on having it done.”

Charles Stewart nodded eagerly. “Bring me a copy, will you, please? In here—at once!”

Llewellyn left quite imperturbably and Stewart offered a hint of explanation to the others. “My father thought a tremendous lot of Llewellyn, gentlemen—and one of the reasons of his great confidence in him was because of Llewellyn’s keen interest in all of my father’s concerns. He wasn’t a chap who just did his bare duty and no more—he seemed able to identify himself intimately with each one of my father’s many interests—and not least with his mania for collecting.”

Anthony stopped him. “Is Llewellyn a ‘devotee’ of the ‘antique artistic’?” he asked.

“My father found him a most zealous assistant in it, Mr. Bathurst,” replied Charles Stewart, “that’s all I can tell you. I’m afraid I was much less interested myself.”

A tap on the library door heralded the secretary’s reappearance. “There is a copy of what you wanted, Mr. Charles,” he declared. Stewart took it and rapidly glanced over it. “That is a list,” continued Llewellyn, “of every single article in your father’s collection.”

Charles Stewart handed the list to Anthony. “Here you are, Mr. Bathurst! Would you like a copy, too, Inspector?”

Goodall declined with a shake of the head. “All I want I can get from Mr. Bathurst,” he answered. “Remember—this is more his ‘stunt’ than mine. I haven’t yet been informed that anything has been stolen from the room in question”—he looked hard at his questioner. Stewart’s reply came with just the slightest touch of asperity.

“Mr. Bathurst doesn’t get any inspired information from me, Inspector, if that’s what you’re hinting at. He knows that I rather disagree with his idea. The room was closed when the alarm was given, and I’ve never suggested to anybody that anything has been stolen.”

Goodall partly shifted his ground. “Why then is our friend here so insistent on the point?”

Anthony made an attempt at explanation. “I’m not exactly insistent, Inspector,” he explained, “don’t misunderstand me! I haven’t perhaps very much reason at the back of my idea, but I’m just curious to get a look at these treasures that the late Mr. Stewart valued so highly. I have a strong feeling that the visit may help us considerably.”