The Hidden Light

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.

MAX DALMAN

THE HIDDEN LIGHT

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1937

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025
Version Date: 2025-06-28

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more books by this author

"The Hidden Light" is a classic British murder mystery. The story begins when artist James Garrow receives a series of threatening anonymous letters. He dismisses them at first but is soon found murdered in his study. Enter private detective David Marchant, who is called in to investigate.

As Marchant delves into the case, he uncovers a household brimming with secrets and suspicion. Potential suspects include Garrow's second wife, his resentful daughter, his intimidated secretary, and figures from his murky past....

Chapter I. Death in the Studio
Chapter II. Marchant Arrives
Chapter III. What a Gun Told
Chapter IV. Interview with a Lady
Chapter V. Enter the Police
Chapter VI. An Accusation
Chapter VII. A Struggle in the Dark
Chapter VIII. Scotland Yard Takes Charge
Chapter IX. Complications
Chapter X. On the Cliffs
Chapter XI. A Confession
Chapter XII. Amberwood Speaks Out
Chapter XIII. Letters and a Warning
Chapter XIV. Marchant is Inspired
Chapter XV. Marchant Makes a Discovery
Chapter XVI. The Letters
Chapter XVII. Amberwood's Name
Chapter XVIII. The Will
Chapter XIX. A New Suspect
Chapter XX. Alice Explains
Chapter XXI. The Lady of the Portrait
Chapter XXII. Amberwood's Return
Chapter XXIII. An Alibi Shaken
Chapter XXIV. The Stage is Set
Chapter XXV. In the Studio
Chapter XXVI. Keyne's Story
Chapter XXVII. The Case is Completed

CHAPTER I
Death in the Studio

IN his restless pacing of the room, James Garrow halted before the half-completed painting which gossip-writers had prophesied would be his latest masterpiece. Even in its unfinished state, he knew that he had never done anything better than the full-length nude of a woman reclining; and he studied it with approval.

Probably the critics whom the contemptuous pronoun indicated would have agreed; but the opinion was typical of the man. Whatever he might despise in the world, or whatever he might distrust, he had an inordinate pride in James Garrow and all his works, and believed in them thoroughly. The fact, combined with a business acumen surprising to those who had suffered from it, had been largely responsible for his success. Unduly sensitive to certain aspects of light and form, and with the skill to use them, he was ruthlessly blind to the feeling of men and women in his ordinary human relationships. An appreciation of his first big exhibition had accused him of painting bodies without souls. It was still true, but his steady improvement in execution had led to a revelation, through mere fidelity, of the minds behind his subjects' exteriors. Fellow artists said that Garrow was as hard as nails, even while the public almost wept over the tenderness of his Madonna and child; and though flattered, courted and reverenced, he was not liked.

Although there was no audience, unconsciously he struck the appropriate attitude for the great artist at work. The slight deepening of a shadow occurred to him as desirable, and he had picked up a brush to deal with it when he hesitated, glancing up at the long windows through which the grey autumn sky was visible. Soon it would be too dark to work without artificial light, and much as he might boast of the marvellous electrical reproduction of daylight with which the studio was equipped, he did not like it. Neither, for that matter, did he greatly care for the special air conditioning system which he had installed at considerable expense, but both had the ostentation necessary to him, and even a commercial value as publicity. He glanced at the clock. It was not yet four but in half an hour it would be getting dusk. Work was impossible, and the mere act of noting the time recalled his mind to another source of interruption which he would have to endure. The visitor whom he expected would soon be coming, and though high-handed, and even rude, with visitors in the ordinary way, in this case circumstances made him even anxious for the intrusion.

He moved over to the desk, trying to work out in his mind exactly what he should disclose in the coming interview. Certainly the chance meeting at a hotel which had led to this slight acquaintance with David Marchant had been providential, for there were certain aspects in the matter which had been troubling him which made application to the police undesirable. Marchant seemed a passable substitute. If he was without the resources and organisation, even the experience, of the official police force, he was nevertheless a brilliant amateur in crime, and had been not unsuccessful in dealing with such cases as had come his way. Garrow had summed him up as clever, if, in his view, limited unduly by moral and ethical scruples. That was going to be the trouble. Clearly he would have to show Marchant some of the threatening letters which he had been receiving at weekly intervals for the last two months if he was to solve the problem of their authorship; but if he showed them all, he was by no means sure that Marchant would consent to take up the case. A selection was necessary. Drawing a tiny key from his pocket, he moved across to the fireplace and inserted it into a minute hole in the carved woodwork of the top.

It was an excellent hiding place. Except to himself and the discreet firm of manufacturers who had installed it, the existence of the nine inch recess was unknown to anyone. Drawing out a package of envelopes which had already reached some considerable dimensions, he closed and locked the door, and went back to his desk, seating himself comfortably in the swivel chair as he started the perusal of the collection. Once or twice he smiled. The style of the unknown writer was of a flamboyant, melodramatic kind which always appealed to his sense of humour. He had merely laughed on the receipt of the first two. Even now he refused to admit to himself that he was afraid. The idea of fear was ludicrous; yet, recently, even when he was most preoccupied with his work, a memory of things which he would have liked to forget insisted on forcing itself into his mind. That, of course, was why he had sent for Marchant. He was not to be terrified by threats, he told himself, even by threats of murder, but he could not have his work disturbed. The half-finished painting should have been completed a month ago. Conscience he disbelieved in; the little nagging prick which the letters produced was more like a mental toothache, and to be dealt with accordingly, by the extraction of the cause.

Over the first two or three he nodded. They were vague enough to be satisfactory. Two more he rejected, placing them in a separate pile. Over the next he hesitated, reading aloud the doubtful sentence.

"As you ruined my life and home, so yours shall be ruined; you shall lose the love and trust of wife and child, before you pay the final penalty."

"Death is coming soon. Do not doubt it. If I cannot inflict upon you the lingering physical tortures which you inflicted, I wish you to feel the pangs of terror to the full. You are going to die. Nothing can save you."

There was no signature; only a neat, though crude, drawing of crossed keys. He appreciated that touch as he laid the letter down. The remaining letters he remembered well enough to sort out without further consideration. Those which he had chosen should at least be enough for the present. The others could be produced later. He piled the suitable ones neatly, and with the rest in his hand had taken a step to restore them to his hiding place when he paused.

It was his pride that he never forgot a face. Long ago as it had been, for special reasons the woman whose image had seemed to flash momentarily across his mind had claims upon his memory. He believed that he could draw it. Seating himself again, he pushed both packets of letters to one side, and reached for a sheet of paper from the rack behind him. He had made one or two tentative lines when the hopeless inadequacy of the pencil as a medium struck him. She had been a characterless person enough, not even beautiful in the formation of her features. But he remembered her as colourful, vivid. In oils, now—but they would take too long. Crumpling the sheet viciously, he threw it aside, and taking another, rummaged in one of the drawers for the rarely used, almost forgotten box of pastels, which he had seen there a day or two before.

Those were better. He worked quickly, brilliantly. The face on the white sheet grew under his hands. He had not forgotten. It was half finished when he leant back to look at it. Then, with a slight shock of surprise, he pushed it a little further away, and laid the pastel which he had been holding down on the desk. Certainly it was a likeness. But it was not the likeness which he had intended. He had meant to draw her bright, smiling and vivacious, as she had been when they first met. Only the upper part of the face was finished, but it was enough to show that he had not done so. The tragedy which stared at him from the eyes was what he had seen later—the last thing he had seen.

"If there is a God, James—if—" He found himself repeating the words. She might have said more, but he had not heard it. He had closed the door and gone out. Suddenly the drawing was distasteful. He could not finish it as he had intended. The smiling red lips, coupled with those eyes, would be horrible, grotesque. The other way he had no wish to draw them. In the existence of God, Garrow had always maintained a sturdy disbelief. He maintained it now, but a little chill of discomfort passed over him. All at once the room seemed very big and bare. It was getting dark besides. For a horrible moment he saw himself in a new light, utterly alone, a puppet in an incomprehensible world of vast dimensions. Then sanity, or pride, asserted itself. With a quick gesture he turned the drawing over and glanced irritably at the clock.

Marchant was late. He should have come by now. He could not, surely, have missed the train. With such an opportunity to distinguish himself by working for a renowned R.A., a young man would be punctual. Perhaps the train had not been up to time. From the station to the house the car would not take twenty minutes. There might have been a breakdown. In any case he should soon be here. He must not see the second pile of letters—not that Garrow was ashamed of them, but because the young man was certainly a fool. He gathered up the scattered envelopes which his quick reversal of the paper had disturbed, and returned them to the recess, carefully re-locking the invisible door. With the key in his hand he stood motionless for a moment, then went back to the desk, and sat down again.

The blank sheet of paper annoyed him. He had a feeling that the eyes which he had himself created were staring through it at him. He had stretched out his hand to grasp it and crumple it fiercely when the click of the door latch made him glance up, composing his features automatically to those of the great and successful genius. The door did not open. He remembered that he had locked it. He hated people bursting in upon him. His hand was in the pocket of his coat, feeling for the key when with another click the door began to move. It could not have been locked, after all. And yet—

"What—? Oh, it's you, is it? Well, has he— What the devil? Don't— You're mad!"

No one outside the beautifully sound-proof studio could have heard either his words or the slight clap of the shot which interrupted them. The latter even Garrow did not hear. He was well on his way to solving the problems of eternity.

CHAPTER II
Marchant Arrives

IN the most comfortable chair which he had been able to find, David Marchant sighed irritably. It was not that the chair was bad. In view of its modernist shape, its angles accommodated themselves better to one's personal contour than he would have believed possible. But he was tired. After a seven hours' train journey, he had had to walk four miles, and walking he abominated. But that was not all. He had come down post-haste to see Garrow. Now that he had arrived, not only had there been no car to convey him from the station, but his arrival at the house seemed a matter of complete indifference to all its members.

For two pins, figuratively speaking, he would have taken the night train back to town. He was cross with Garrow. He was cross with everyone, with the possible exception of the mild-mannered butler who had admitted him, expressed grave surprise regarding the car which Garrow had clearly forgotten to order, and given him some excellent sherry to help him in his waiting ordeal. When he looked up, it was with an expression which might have meant anything; but, at the sight of the butler it softened to a smile.

"I'm sorry, sir," the butler apologised. "Mrs. Garrow seems to be out of the house. Perhaps Miss Garrow would know, sir."

"His daughter, sir. Mrs. Garrow is the second wife. Or his secretary might know. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll look for them."

Marchant sipped his sherry again as the butler vanished. Garrow's summons had puzzled him. Garrow's reputation had almost prevented him from coming at all. The artist had a name for being fond of the ladies, and, less explicably, the ladies seemed fond of him. Of all things, he hated most the shams and nastiness of divorce courts, but he was beginning to wonder whether Garrow might not belong to that unreasonable section of mankind which thought a private detective's hobby would lie in probing hotel registers, watching errant wives, and rescuing acquaintances from the consequences of their amorous indiscretions.

If it was so, he had quite decided to throw the case up. He knew Garrow only slightly. He was under no obligations to Garrow. He hardly knew why he had come, unless it had been a sense of urgency behind the polite phrases in which the artist had couched his invitation. And he relied largely upon what, in a woman, would have been called instinct. Instinct had told him that Garrow was in danger even when he read the note with his morning cup of tea. But after the four mile walk from the station, he was thinking of instinct in most uncomplimentary terms. He tried to tell himself that he was tired after a long journey; that he would see things more sensibly later, and that Garrow might not be the philanderer that he appeared. Even the sherry did not help him. He quite thought himself fully prepared to devour the first person whom he met when the girl's entrance caused him to revise the opinion hastily.

It was not that she was beautiful. Except for the keen, abnormally penetrating eyes which reminded him of Garrow, her face, he judged, must most nearly resemble that of her dead mother. In his mind he had no doubt that this was the daughter of whom the butler had spoken. She had entered the lounge from the direction opposite to that by which the butler had taken his exit, and her frankly curious expression as she came towards him was enough to prove that she did not know who he was. He rose to his feet.

"Yes." The girl smiled at him. "I'm sorry you've been waiting. No one told me you were here. If it's about the church decorations—"

"It isn't." Marchant's annoyance had vanished, and he smiled in return. "I've an appointment with Mr. Garrow. An urgent appointment—or rather, quarter of an hour ago I thought it was. Now, I'm not so sure—"

"That's just like daddy!" Jessica Garrow's voice was appropriately sympathetic. "He's always forgetting things—and people. It's the artistic temperament—or he'd like us to think it is. Sometimes it's true. If you'll tell me your troubles, I'll try to deal with them."

"Mr. Garrow asked me to come—urgently. I caught the first train. In the absence of the car which he had promised should meet me, I walked from the station. I quite thought, when I got here, that you'd be sending out search parties for me. But, as a matter of fact, no one bothered. No one had even heard of me. Mrs. Garrow was out—"

"I suppose I ought to be more helpful," she admitted, '"but I don't think I can be. You haven't told me your name."

"Sorry. My name's Marchant—David Marchant. I don't know why Mr. Garrow asked me down here. But his summons was certainly urgent. I bolted breakfast, dashed for the train, came down here with only such sustenance as the railways provide, and walked from the station. And, when I got here, the butler said that he couldn't possibly let me see Mr. Garrow, as he was in the studio, and wasn't to be disturbed, except on special instructions."

"Keyne was quite right, Mr.—Mr. Marchant," she said at last. "If father is in the studio, he'd be sacked at once if he let in anyone without special authorisation... And I'm afraid I can't give it. Father never mentioned to me that you were coming. I wonder if he told Peter—Mr. Amberwood, I mean."

"Mr. Amberwood?" Marchant asked. The use of the Christian name had not escaped him. "I'm afraid that I don't know who he is."

"Daddy's secretary." The girl hesitated. She glanced doubtfully from Marchant to the door at the far end of the lounge through which she had come; then her eyes returned to meet his glance. "Marchant, you said the name was? I seem to know it. You're—you're not David Marchant, the detective?"

"That sounds like Sherlock Holmes, or someone," Marchant laughed. "I'm afraid I'd hardly lay claims to such fame. But, actually, my name is David Marchant. And I have—I have been—"

"You solved the Harper case. It was in the newspapers." As the girl spoke, Marchant decided that her frankness was deceptive. He did not know why. He did not know why he thought so. Women, he knew as a bachelor, adopted automatically a variety of subterfuges which no mere man could see reason for. "You're too modest, Mr. Marchant," she continued with a raillery which struck him as being forced. "And you say you were summoned here urgently. Why?"

Marchant hesitated. The mere fact that he had not the slightest reason why Garrow had wanted him made him cautious. He hoped that his own expression registered the same ingenuous frankness as that of the girl, though, in his heart, something was telling him that he could never hope to equal her. In her nature, he could see something of Garrow, curiously transformed. It was mere ability and cleverness, perhaps. She looked a typical tennis-playing, boating, athletic specimen of the female sex; but he was sure that she was nothing of the kind. His secret thought was that he had never met a woman with more control over her features.

"Well, Mr. Marchant?" she prompted lightly. "I hope I'm not being indiscreet in asking. But, you know, I've quite a name for saying the wrong thing. If it's a dark secret—"

"It's a dark secret—to me!" Marchant tried to imitate her gaiety. "Strange as it must seem, Miss Garrow, I don't know why I'm here. I met Mr. Garrow at Bude. He was kind enough to be interested in some of my cases. Then, at breakfast to-day I got a letter asking me to come at once. I came. And now, no one knows anything about it."

The question might have been merely conversational, but instinct warned him Garrow's daughter, for some inexplicable reason, was anxious about his coming. She was even worried, though the calm, blue eyes and unruffled brow gave no suggestion of it. And Marchant, who could never resist a problem, found himself concentrating automatically upon the solution of the riddle the girl herself presented.

"I know nothing!" he answered after only a slight pause. "And Mrs. Garrow seems to have vanished into space. Probably she would know, but she's not here."

"Kay? Probably she wouldn't!" Jessica Garrow rejoined, and Marchant was conscious of the alternation between the simple truth and concealment. As she smiled, concealment was again the dominant factor. "We all like Kay, Mr.—Mr. Marchant. I call her that, you know, because, as she's only four years older than I am it would be silly to do the mother stuff. But father doesn't bother her much with business. It must be about that he called you in?"

"It must be," Marchant agreed, with a strong suspicion that he was lying. "But you spoke of a secretary—Mr.—Mr. Amberwood, wasn't it?"

"Yes... Of course, he ought to know. But father's very funny. Quite likely he didn't tell him. I suppose he didn't tell the chauffeur to meet you, either. And Keyne was quite right in not letting you in." She shrugged her shoulders as if she was shaking off the responsibility for something over which she had no control. "You see, Mr. Marchant, we've got to deal with an artistic genius. And daddy will shut himself up in the studio for hours—lock himself in, with the understanding that he's not to be disturbed on any account. If one does—!"

Her expression more than atoned for the absence of what she might have said. It fitted in completely with Marchant's own impression. In the home, he felt sure, Garrow might be a very different personality from the suave, kindly gentleman that he could sometimes appear outside. But, still conscious of something wrong, he persisted.

"Yes." Jessica Garrow hesitated. Her eyes avoided his own. Unexpectedly she coloured, and, noticing that he had seen, went a deeper tint. "But I don't know—" she began. "Ah!"

There was relief, and something else, in her voice. Marchant's eyes followed the direction of her gaze at her final exclamation. The door was still swinging behind the young man who had entered—the door, he noted, by which the girl had come. The first glimpse told him that the new arrival must be the secretary, even if the girl's relief had not done so already. She rose to her feet.

"This is Mr. Marchant, Peter," she introduced. "He says he's got to see daddy urgently.

"That's right." Amberwood was looking at the girl. To Marchant he had merely nodded. "Mr. Garrow told me. He was expecting a visitor, whom he'd see as soon as he came."

His mouth shut like a trap, as though he was afraid of saying too much. He glanced from one to the other uneasily.

"Then it must be all right!" Jessica Garrow came to his rescue. "This is Mr. David Marchant—you know, the detective. And he doesn't know why he's down here. But father sent for him urgently, and, though he won't admit it, he's almost sure it's professional. Someone's been stealing stamps. Or a gang is going to murder daddy because of his last academy painting. Or something. Mr. Marchant is full of mysteriousness and interrogation!"

Amberwood's expression had changed. Marchant was sure of that. He wished he was equally sure what the change conveyed. For the secretary had one of those stolid, stupid faces which never registered any emotion adequately. Only his natural surliness seemed to be increased.

"That'll be it," Amberwood managed to emit. "Mr. Garrow wanted to see him as soon as—"

He broke off, looking up the lounge. It was the butler who had returned, and at the sight of the group he seemed at a loss what to do.

"It's all right, Keyne!" Jessica Garrow came to his rescue. "Daddy will see Mr. Marchant at once. You needn't have any hesitation in shepherding him into the ogre's den!"

"Yes, Miss Jessica," the butler assented. But he still hesitated. Marchant had a glimpse of the reign of terror which the artist exercised over his household. "But Mr. Garrow told me, Miss Jessica—"

"All previous orders countermanded. But, if you're frightened, Keyne, we'll come with you—won't we, Peter?" Amberwood looked reluctant, but the girl linked one arm in his and the other in Marchant's. "Now, go ahead, Keyne. I've got them all!"

Keyne smiled a melancholy smile. He led the way up the room with the look of a funeral mute who is perfectly sure that he is doing the wrong thing. It was the door by which the girl and Amberwood had entered towards which he went, and Marchant's natural curiosity was glad of it. He wanted to know what was on the other side.

It was no more than a vestibule. On the right, a staircase led upwards into the darkness. On the left, a curtained recess gave him a glimpse of an open book lying face downwards on the cushions of the settee. The double door immediately facing them was obviously the butler's objective, but, as he reached it he stopped.

The butler's dignified nod made Marchant expect that he would open the door. Instead, he only pressed one of the two bell-pushes let into the wall beside it. Jessica Garrow laughed, and the laugh might, or might not, have been forced. Marchant wished he knew which it was. But she had apparently noticed his own surprise.

"This is the ogre's den, Mr. Marchant!" she assured him. "You don't go in. You can't. It's locked, and all you can do is to wait for the ogre to come out and devour you... Sometimes he's ages!"

Marchant hardly knew what to reply. For almost a minute they waited before the girl broke the silence.

"He expected someone," Amberwood assented reluctantly. "Whoever it was had to go in at once."

"Ring again, Keyne!" She turned to Marchant with an explanatory apology. "You see, Mr. Marchant, ogre though father may be, he does keep appointments. Even prides himself on it. So it's funny—"

She broke off. As he stared at the doors, Marchant felt a recurrence of the anxiety which he had felt when he first received Garrow's letter.

He was wondering whether the frown on Jessica's face was real or assumed when she answered.

"It's funny." She paused, looking at the door as though she expected that it would answer her doubts. "Try it, Keyne!"

Obediently the butler turned the handle. It resisted his pressure. Evidently it was locked.

"Daddy—he'd have come!" Jessica Garrow broke the silence. "He—he might be— Keyne, try it. The other bell!"

The butler looked from Amberwood back to the girl before he obeyed. The next moment Marchant understood why. An amazing clanging resulted. It sounded from the studio, dimly; from the room in which they stood deafeningly; and more distantly from other parts of the house.

"Fire alarm!" Amberwood explained briefly. "Garrow's scared of fires. Had it fitted up. He'll come now... Lord help us!"

The clamour of the bell had ceased. Things seemed unnaturally still. From the door came no sign that the alarm had been heard.

"Peter! Peter!" Jessica's voice broke the silence. "He—he's ill! He'd have come—you know he'd have come. Break the door!"

Amberwood made no move. The butler glanced helplessly from one to the other. It was left to Marchant to take the lead.

"Barred." Amberwood disposed of his suggestion with a word. "A cat couldn't get through. No, it's here or nowhere. If we were sure—"

Jessica Garrow's cry broke in on his words. Amberwood looked at her. His expression reminded Marchant of a dog anxious to do the right thing but uncertain what it is.

"We'd better break it in," Marchant came to his rescue. He scrutinised the door speculatively. "Shoulders wouldn't shake that—we'll need an axe."

"Here!" Amberwood woke to sudden activity, reaching towards a cabinet in the wall. "Another of his fads... He's scared of fires."

Marchant accepted the dangerous looking weapon which the cupboard had furnished. As the others stood back, his first swing crashed on the woodwork. It made less impression than he had expected. The door was remarkably solid, and though successive blows cut into the part surrounding the lock he had to pause for breath before it was loosened.

"Hurry! Oh, hurry!" Jessica Garrow's cry of anguish urged him on as he bent down to the keyhole. It showed him little enough, except one edge of the mantelpiece at the far end of the room. The girl gripped his arm. "Hurry! He may be—"

Marchant shook his head as he raised the axe again. But his task was nearly done. Suddenly he felt the door give. Pushing it open, he stopped, staring at the still figure which had fallen forward on the desk.

CHAPTER III
What a Gun Told

FROM behind him he heard the girl's scream, and with a single quick glance round saw that she had fallen back unconscious into the secretary's arms. Then, thrusting the door wide open, he crossed the room hastily towards where the dead man sat.

Garrow had collapsed among the papers which littered the desk. At the first glimpse one might have thought that sleep had overcome him while he sat there; then the thin red stream which had oozed over the white sheet below the greying hair told Marchant the truth. Only as he stood over the body did he see the tiny revolver, hardly more than a toy, which had fallen to the ground beside the chair. The left hand, crumpled awkwardly, had been pressed against the woodwork of the desk by the weight of the body; the right hung limply, only an inch or two above the weapon. Bending down, he touched the limp wrist speculatively. Garrow had been dead for more than an hour.

He stood up frowning, then stepped back a little to one side of the chair for a better view. The position of the body was compatible with suicide. He might have expected the right hand to have been on the desk and still holding the butt, but it was hard to say. Bending down, he could just see the edge of the small dark hole in the temple, and the shot had evidently been fired at close range. But something disturbed him. He had looked for half a minute before it dawned upon him what it was.

In just such a way another man might have shot himself; sitting a little more than usually erect in the chair, one hand on the desk. The right hand with the gun would naturally have dropped to where it hung; the shock of the drop would have torn the weapon from its grip. The head would have fallen forward. There was nothing mechanically wrong with the body's position, or that of the gun. It was his memory of Garrow in his lifetime which made it seem unnatural.

The artist had not been the kind of man to commit suicide. So much Marchant would have sworn, but he might nevertheless have been mistaken. But if Garrow had committed suicide, it would have been in some splendid, spectacular way; rising to his feet and putting the gun to his head with a dramatic gesture; falling like a stage tragedian, probably before one of his own paintings. He was not the type to sit quietly and decently at a desk. But, apparently, he had done so. Marchant's eyes went to the gun, studying the possibility of accident. It was an old-fashioned type, self-cocking only after a considerable pressure on the trigger to pull back the hammer. Unless it had previously been cocked, it would be impossible to discharge it accidentally. And, at the moment of firing, it had been right against the face.

His eyes wandered again to the limp hand. He tried to tell himself that the problem was the product of his own imagination, but the doubt persisted. Accident was in the highest degree unlikely; suicide, bearing in mind Garrow's character, was unnatural. It left murder, but that was the most improbable of all. Then he bent down with an exclamation.

It was not until he remembered the box of pastels on the desk that he found the explanation of the coloured, chalky substance which covered the thumb and first two fingers of Garrow's hands. Momentarily the discoloration had surprised him, but it was plain enough. Just before he shot himself, Garrow had been working in chalk upon something, and as he caught a glimpse of the crumpled sheet beside the basket he opened it gingerly. That was pencil—the rough outline of a woman's head. Perhaps, after all, the artist had not used the pastels, but had merely been sorting out the disordered sticks which the box contained; mere odds and ends, more fitted for a child's play box than the studio of an artist. Stepping back, he almost kicked the gun. Then the gleam of its ivory grip and shining trigger-guard brought a sudden revelation.

The great detective equipped with a powerful magnifying glass through which he studied the most ordinary object might be a figure of comedy; but Marchant had found a magnifying glass useful on a variety of occasions. He had one now. Feeling in his pocket, he produced it, and knelt to look at the handle of the gun. Even through the glass, it showed a pure, virgin white, almost unnaturally speckless, as though it had been polished. And the shining metal-work of its nickelled trigger and barrel were equally unsullied. With the realisation of what it meant, he gave a low whistle; then rose hurriedly as a step sounded in the doorway.

It was not Amberwood, but the butler who entered. Clearly he was a little shaken, but his professional self-control came to his aid. The expression of horror with which he viewed the body of his master was only momentary. He looked up to meet Marchant's eyes, and when he spoke it was almost without a tremor.

"Mr. Amberwood told me to come to you, sir," he said. "He is with Miss Jessica. She has fainted... He—he's dead, sir?"

Marchant nodded; yet, as he did so, he had a passing impression of the oddness of the secretary's behaviour. One would have thought that, having seen the senseless man at the desk, Amberwood would have dashed in immediately; as soon as he had had time to lay the girl down. Another thought struck him.

"She has not come back yet, sir, poor lady. We cannot find her in the house... I should have been here before, sir, but the staff has instructions on the first sounding of the alarm to make their way outside to the front lawn and wait. I went to find them. One of the maids, Alice, is hysterical, sir. I thought Mr. Amberwood would help here, sir."

"I should say so, sir. The cook is with her at present." He looked down again at the dead man. "You're sure, sir?" he began. "How—"

"Shot," Marchant explained briefly. "Not the least doubt. He's been dead some time... That's his gun, I suppose?"

"The police? Of course. And a doctor. You've a telephone here? Get on to them at once. This extension works? Good. I'll speak to the station myself when you get it."

With a last glance at his dead master, the butler was retiring from the room when he almost collided with Amberwood. The secretary spoke at once.

"Been dead for some time." Marchant surreptitiously pocketed the magnifying glass which, while talking to the butler, he had concealed in his hands. "There's the gun. Do you recognise it?"

"See here, Mr.—Mr. Marchant—" he began and stopped. "Sorry. I thought you meant—"

"Why should I?" Marchant rejoined equivocally. "But of course the police are bound to ask."

"No, I don't know it." Amberwood spoke sulkily. For a moment he stood studying the body, and there was something in his expression which Marchant failed to understand. He was certain only that it was not grief. And there had been no sorrow visible in the butler's attitude either. The secretary looked up to meet his eyes. "I'd never have thought he'd have done it!" he said a little nervously. "Suicide, I mean. And I don't see why—of course, there's been trouble—"

He broke off again, tantalisingly. Had he been officially in charge of the investigation, Marchant might have pressed the point, but he was not. With the arrival of the police he would certainly be superseded, and except by courtesy, would have no more importance than that of a witness at the inquest. He made a mental note of the words, wondering if they bore any relation to the obvious sympathy which he had noticed between daughter and secretary.

"I suppose he's been worried lately?" Marchant asked. "You'd be able to tell the police about his business affairs."

"The police?" The young man's voice was startled. "Why, it's not that sort of job, surely?"

"Sudden death generally is. There'll be an inquest, of course. I was just wondering whether there was anything that might have made him take his own life?"

"The door was locked," Marchant pointed out. "It almost looks as though he wanted to be undisturbed. The key wasn't in."

"It often is locked. Whenever he wants to work undisturbed. And I think he's a habit of pocketing keys. He's probably got it on him. Right hand coat pocket, I should say."

"We'll leave that. I've not laid a finger on anything myself, except just to touch his wrist. Nothing's got to be disturbed, of course. I've no standing here—"

"You? Why, of course—" A new idea seemed to dawn upon Amberwood. "That's funny, isn't it? He asks you down here, and when you get here you find him dead. Did he tell you—"

"I have no idea why I was invited down. There may or may not be a connexion... You didn't handle that part of his correspondence, then?"

"Didn't handle any of it, if you mean opening letters. He went through it himself. That is, he has done lately. Then he sorted out what I had to answer."

"Oh, I used to do it at one time. But he chose to think that I'd made a mistake. Some letter was mislaid or something. We had rather a row about it. He wasn't always too easy, you know."

"Why?" The secretary hesitated, and looked at Marchant suspiciously before he made up his mind to answer. "Six weeks ago, maybe more. But the row was nothing. He'd got over that long ago."

"Pity we had to make such a mess of the door." Marchant left the subject. "You said that the windows were barred?"

"Absolutely. In fact, they won't open at all. It was one of the old man's fads to have a special ventilation system. And the other door's always locked. He never used it."

"Over here." Amberwood led the way to the far side of the big easel upon which Marchant noted the half-finished painting, with the brush laid down as though work had been suddenly interrupted. "There you are. It's bolted as usual."

The door was both locked and bolted. Here, as before, the key was missing, but a glance at the door-frame showed him that it would have been little short of impossible to shoot the bolts from outside by any known trick. Something glistening in the socket caught his attention. He bent down to look at it more carefully; then looked again at the lock and the upper bolt.

"No one could. He kept the keys of this room himself—only doled them out to the servants when tidying was absolutely necessary. Of course, some of his work was pretty valuable."

Marchant was silent, but his glance strayed again to the bolts. If the artist had not used the door, either he or someone else had most certainly seen to it that the bolts and locks were most efficiently oiled. It was one more odd fact which might, or might not have significance. Even apart from that, the barred windows and the bolted door had told him a good deal. He was extremely thoughtful as they returned towards the desk. Nervously the secretary broke a silence which seemed to be more than he could bear.

"You don't think that there's anything wrong? I mean, it's not—well, it must have been suicide, mustn't it?"

"The police will settle that," Marchant evaded. "As I say, I know nothing of the circumstances."

He felt the secretary's eyes upon him, as if trying to read what was in his mind. Deliberately he refused to meet them. His eyes wandered towards the desk, and the scattered papers which covered it.

"Yes. I'd come in for half an hour or so in the morning, and he'd give me my batch. Those are what we were dealing with this morning."

"Not that I can see. Ordinary business stuff you know. Nothing exciting so far as I know... I suppose he didn't leave anything—a note? You know, they often do—"

"I looked. There's nothing here, anyway. Unless the body covers it. There's a sheet of drawing paper underneath the head. He must have been just in the middle of something. Did he use pastels much?"

He broke off as a discreet knock sounded on the broken door. It was the butler, but, to Marchant's surprise, his professional calm seemed even more shaken than when he had first seen the body. His expression was one of utter bewilderment.

"The 'phone, sir!" He was almost incoherent with some strong emotion. "The 'phone— There's no reply. The line's dead."

"Out of order?" he echoed incredulously. "Why, it couldn't be. It was all right this afternoon."

"No." Marchant's sudden questions had clearly disconcerted him. "A call came through for Mrs. Garrow, though. About half past three. That's right, isn't it, Keyne?"

The mention of Mrs. Garrow recalled to Amberwood something which he had forgotten.

"Who'll tell her?" he asked doubtfully. "We'll have to break it to her somehow."

"Yes. When she comes back." Marchant's voice was very quiet. "But the police may be here by then."

"That's not all, sir!" The butler interrupted with a rudeness which betokened his agitation. "There are no 'phones near, sir. It occurred to me that the best thing would be to send Parsons, the chauffeur, in one of the cars. He—he tells me, sir, that he can't start either. He thinks that someone has been tampering with them."

Marchant's lips pursed as if he was on the point of whistling. He looked from Amberwood's startled face to the butler.

"Parsons has a bicycle, sir," Keyne answered after a pause. "He could go with a message."

For a moment Marchant hesitated, and if either of the others could have looked into his mind it might have made him still more uncomfortable.

"Good idea." He approved at last. "Send Parsons. Tell him to hurry, and tell the police to hurry!"

"Yes, sir." On the point of leaving, Keyne paused. "Miss—Miss Jessica asked to see you, sir. Mr. Amberwood, I mean. She is very distressed."

"I'll come." Amberwood assented; but he waited until the butler's footsteps had crossed the room and the door into the lounge closed before he spoke what was in his mind. "I say. 'Phone wrong, car's wrong. He sends for you, and we find him shot. It—it's a darned queer coincidence, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Marchant's assent was non-committal. "We'll see soon. When the police come... Perhaps you had better see Miss Garrow. I'll stay here and see that nothing is touched."

Evidently a question was trembling on the secretary's lips. Marchant's face gave him no encouragement to put it. Without a word he turned and went.

Left to himself except for the dead man in the chair, Marchant was thinking that the unexpected breakdown of all means of rapid communication was only one puzzling factor among many. There was the handle of the gun. There was the absence of emotion displayed alike by Keyne and Amberwood. There was the room, locked, almost sealed against any outside intrusion. And there was the absence of Mrs. Garrow. Any and all of them might prove significant.

He moved over to the desk again. So far as he could see without disturbing them, the papers were what Amberwood had said. There was no sign of a farewell note; but that he no longer expected. The half-exposed white sheet of paper fascinated him. Along the edge, the powder from the pastels was pushed into a little ridge. Certainly Garrow had been using them. Perhaps on the other side—

His thoughts broke off abruptly at the sound of a light, quick footstep in the vestibule outside. He turned towards the door to meet the eyes of the woman who stood there, staring with a strange, deathly calm towards the desk.

CHAPTER IV
Interview With a Lady

EVEN if he had not known that it could be no one else, his recognition would have been instantaneous. Two years ago, Garrow's academy painting "Portrait of my Wife" had for a time made Catherine Garrow's face familiar to the world, and he had not forgotten it. For a moment it almost seemed as though the portrait had stepped out of its frame and was standing looking at him. The dark hair contrasting boldly with the white delicacy of her skin, the finely moulded features, the brown eyes, with their curious depth and inscrutability looked at him again. Or rather, not at him, but at the dead man who had been her husband. With a little shock the thought recalled him to realities. But he stood helpless, curiously at a loss what to do or say. Then the brown eyes met his.

"Yes," Marchant said simply and stopped. But he had to say something. "I—I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Garrow... You don't know me, of course. My name's Marchant. Your husband asked me down—"

With the merest hint of a gesture her hand indicated the desk. Under her iron self-control, it was impossible to say what she was thinking. She made no effort to go nearer to the body. After the first long gaze, it seemed as if her eyes studiously avoided it. She reminded him of the wife in the poem when "home they brought her warrior dead"; and yet she did not. If it had been a stranger, he felt, she might have looked with more sympathy at the poor corpse than she displayed for her own husband.

Somehow, Marchant had expected anything else—tears, a breakdown, an outburst of some kind. The quiet question took him aback completely.

"He was shot," he agreed cautiously. "The revolver is beside him... Of course, the police will make inquiries. In such cases, there is the possibility of accident."

"The police—ah!" In the shuddering gasp there was more emotion than she had shown since entering the room. It might have been fear; it might have been more than the dawning upon her stunned consciousness of all that the dead man signified. In a sudden gesture her hands clasped nervously. "And you?" she cried more loudly. "You, too! I know why my husband sent for you—the traps he was laying for me—"

Marchant was almost too stunned to speak. With an odd feeling of incongruity it came to him in that dramatic moment that she had taken off her hat and coat. She had been out somewhere. She must have had the news of her husband's death immediately on her return. And before coming to the room where he lay shot she had taken off her hat and coat. The fact beat on his mind with a strange insistence. As she looked up, her eyes were blazing. Her self-control had vanished utterly.

"He didn't! He wouldn't kill himself! Not while there was someone to torture and make miserable! Not until he had had his revenge on—" She stopped as though some startling revelation had burst upon her mind overwhelmingly. Her hand went to her heart. For an instant she swayed as though she was going to fall. Marchant had taken a step forward to catch her when she recovered. Her eyes were upon him piercingly, as though she was determined to force the truth from him. "Could it have been—?" Suddenly her voice was quiet again, but with a tremor of almost unbearable tension. "Could it have been—murder?"

Marchant did not answer at once. With a quick movement she gripped his arm, fiercely, commandingly.

"Could it have been? Could it?" The words came with low, rapid persistence. "It might be suicide or accident, you said. But is it a possibility that—that it was neither. Could it have been—?"

Marchant bowed his head. He heard the hiss of her escaping breath. Her hand fell from his arm. Though he refused to meet her gaze, he felt it upon him, studying him, searching out what he felt.

"It is more than that." Once again she was in complete command of herself. "You think that it is." Marchant hesitated. During the past few minutes he had been wishing most earnestly that he had never made a hobby of crime; that he was somewhere else; that it had fallen to some other man's lot to deal with such a situation. Then he met her gaze squarely.

"Yes." He spoke with a coldness which he felt to be brutal, but he could not help it. "Some circumstances point to murder—"

"Then that was why he asked you down!" She laughed mirthlessly. The sound of it shocked him more than her previous outburst in the presence of the dead man. "He had told you about me—what he suspected? You were to be witness that—"

"Your husband had told me nothing!" Marchant interrupted with unnecessary violence. "He simply asked me to come down. There was something which was troubling him, and he did not want to go to the police. And, after all, Mrs. Garrow, he is dead."

Her eyes dropped. With an abrupt gesture she covered her face with her hands, sobbing convulsively. Marchant's conscience smote him. He led her gently to the door and into the curtained recess before he spoke again.

"Mrs. Garrow, I'm afraid—" he began. "The shock has been too much for you. It would be better if you were to lie down—to leave here. You can do nothing but harm—"

He hardly knew how he had meant to end the sentence. Certainly he had not intended a warning to a woman who might be a murderess, or the accomplice to a murder. But as he broke off she looked up. Her breast rose and fell convulsively, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. And in them he read a mute, passionate appeal. He looked away. There was a moment of silence in which even the ticking of a clock sounded unnaturally loud. He could hear her breathing.

"Mr. Marchant," she said at last a little tremulously. Her voice gathered strength as she spoke. "You are not—not a policeman. My husband's death looks like suicide. Something you have seen makes you think that it is not, that it is murder. If I told you—if I explained to you—that telling the police that might mean—" She faltered for a second only. "Might mean a miscarriage of justice, would you feel bound to tell the police?"

Marchant's face was set as he looked at her. Her imploring eyes seemed to dominate him, to be mastering him. He spoke only with an effort.

"Yes." What the syllable cost him to speak the woman before him could not know. "Yes!" he repeated more firmly. "I should..."

Her tenseness suddenly relaxed. She moved uncertainly towards a chair, sinking into it as though her legs refused to bear her.

"I see," she said inaudibly. "I see... Of course, you couldn't take the responsibility. You couldn't know."

The words stung him. It had been the invariable rule of his detective activities that everything material was revealed to the police. Suppression of facts was abominable as a matter of principle. It angered him unreasonably that his refusal to do such a thing should be ascribed to cowardice, more than ever at that moment when he was showing a degree of moral courage with which he would not have credited himself.

"I—I think it would be only just to me if you let me explain," he said at last. "I have always worked on the principle that the ultimate decision of innocence or guilt in any crime must rest with a court of law. Sometimes there may be miscarriages of justice, human nature being fallible. Not often. But the law functions for the general good. To put oneself beyond it—to claim to be superior to it—" He searched for words in which to express himself, with the feeling that he was explaining academically badly, with a ridiculous pomposity. "It would make things worse," he continued lamely. "There would be more mistakes in the end. I can't explain properly... But if—if a case arose such as you mention, though I told the police, I should feel bound to see that, to the best of my ability the facts were not—were not misunderstood; that they were not revealed in a form in which there was no chance of their being believed. I should do my best to prove them."

She did not speak at once. Marchant looked at her, met her eyes and looked away again.

"I see," she said at last. "Yes, I think that I really do see what you mean. Probably you're right. But perhaps, perhaps you can help even so. You think that this—" She glanced over to where the dead man lay. "You think it is murder made to look like suicide. You do, don't you? You do!"

"From a first impression," Marchant spoke deliberately, trying to look at the problem with proper coolness. "Perhaps I do. But one could never be sure, so soon... Only, you know, I am sure that it is not the simple suicide which it seems to be."

"You are wrong, Mr. Marchant. Because of what I have said, you think that I am guilty, or shielding someone who is... But you are wrong. It is the other way round. I feel it. It is not murder made to look like suicide, but—suicide made to look like murder... No, let me speak!" Even with the knowledge that what she said was impossible, Marchant obeyed. "It is difficult to say this. You must let me go on, without interruption. I did not love my husband. I hated him, almost from the first few months of our marriage I hated him. And he hated me. You might have seen the portrait of me?" She smiled bitterly. "Before that was finished, he was not interested in me. I do not—I cannot accept divorce. We stayed together. I tried—I really tried. But it grew worse. Lately, he has been trying to divorce me. He has no grounds. He has deliberately manufactured evidence so far as he could. Perhaps he realised that it could not succeed. And we have hated each other more and more... I believe, I sincerely believe that he has done this so that I and—and the man with whom he thinks I am in love, shall be tried for murder... You see, he's not a normal man... It sounds impossible to believe, I know. But it is true. I feel it!"

Marchant was silent. He was wondering desperately whether what he heard was the truth or not. And it was a minute before it came to him with overpowering conviction that it could not be. The very circumstance which had made him think it a murder prohibited the possibility of a suicide. Unless he could explain away that one significant fact which he had seen it was hopeless.

"You don't believe me." There was calm hopelessness in her words. "Listen. My husband shot himself. Was it with a little, ivory-handled gun—a revolver? I—I haven't looked. I couldn't. I'm not sorry that he's dead. Only I can't look—closely, you know."

"That is mine. It was my mother's. It has been locked in my bureau for years... Then, he sent for you, on a mysterious errand. He knew that you would hear something about me. From servants, neighbours, friends of my husband. He wouldn't spare me that way. With the revolver, wouldn't that make you suspicious—suspicious enough to find whatever flaw he had left purposely?"

"But—it's not possible," Marchant answered heavily. "You see, it can't be... I wish it was. But it can't."

"But if it was? The police would not be looking for such a thing. They could not believe it. If they did not accept it as suicide, they would be out for a conviction, to hang someone."

"That's unjust!" The protest escaped him almost against his will. "They would be out to solve the crime. Not, necessarily, to hang anyone."

"Perhaps. But, now that I have told you, couldn't you—well, remember it? I mean, not make up your mind, until you are sure?"

"It hardly rests with me, Mrs. Garrow. Probably the police will prefer to handle it themselves. I can't force myself in. And I don't know the police down here. If it was Scotland Yard—but there's no saying if they'll be called in or not."

"But you could work for me—you could look into things on my behalf." She smiled wryly. "For the defence, so to speak!"

"I have never done so," Marchant answered slowly. "I mean, if I found anything out, if at the end it was against you, I should have to say it... I'm sorry."

"But I understand that. Only, then, you could stay. You would be able to—to help?"

"They could hardly deny the defence proper facilities," Marchant replied. "But, you see, I might not be defence... I don't mean that I don't believe you, as much as I should believe anyone. More, perhaps. That is what makes me doubtful... How could I pretend to be working for you when—when—?"

"When you might end by hanging me?" She ended the sentence for him as he faltered. "I see it would be difficult. Only, I should prefer to take my chance that way."

Marchant thought desperately. He was trying to make up his mind. Through the open doorway he heard the distant ringing of a bell. Catherine Garrow rose slowly to her feet.

She looked as if she was going to speak. Her lips parted but no sound came. Then, abruptly, she turned, and hurried up the staircase.

CHAPTER V
Enter the Police

TO Superintendent Kirke, the agitated summons of Parsons' had presented no opportunity for especial glory. It had even worried him. If the suicide which the chauffeur had reported had been that of some humble man, who had chosen to put an end to the woes of this world by means of a gas oven, he would have had no doubts in committing its charge to one of his subordinates. But it was James Garrow, R.A. The mere fact ensured Superintendent Kirke's presence. People knew him. The papers would be full of it. With no desire for publicity, it was a case he could hardly leave in the hands of anyone else, much as he wished to be elsewhere.

His first hint of the presence of Marchant had been gleaned from the butler. He had paused long enough in the lounge to hear about the amateur who, by blind luck, had managed to obtrude himself into a case which, equally by luck, should have been his. He had even stopped to question Keyne and Amberwood, less with a view to the suicide than with a view to finding out how far Marchant was involved. The result was not re-assuring to him, and he resented it.

To Marchant his resentment was obvious enough as he entered the studio. In Superintendent Kirke, it took the form of ignoring him, and his reputation as an amateur detective, as much as possible. Marchant, so far as he was concerned, was simply one of the three persons who had first entered the room when the discovery of Garrow's body was made.

"Mr. Marchant?" he greeted on his entrance. "You were with Mr. Keyne and Mr. Amberwood when the door was forced. You had an appointment with Mr. Garrow. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Marchant—after we've had a look round here."

Marchant was annoyed. Merely because he was annoyed, he smiled obediently and gave the Superintendent his head. A sympathetic smile from the police doctor who accompanied Kirke did something to reconcile him. Generally, he got on well with doctors in criminal cases, simply because he realised the impossibility of making accurate scientific statements in inaccurate circumstances.

As he waited in the lounge, Marchant was wondering exactly what the verdict of the doctor would be. It might be a matter of prime importance; since, if there was one thing about which he was more certain than another, it was that Garrow's death was not the simple suicide which it professed to be. The question of time, therefore, became of particular interest. He remembered that, as he had come up the drive towards the house at the end of his weary and unexpected pedestrian journey, he had seen the lights of the studio go up. Someone had switched them on. It might have been Garrow, or it might have been someone else. It might even have been his murderer.

It had been about a quarter to six when he saw the light. Quarter of an hour later he had been ringing the front door bell. A full twenty minutes later, thanks to the absence of any member of the household who knew anything, he had tried to keep his appointment. There was the time spent in bursting down the door. If Garrow himself had switched on the lights, it must have been nearly an hour before Marchant touched his wrist.

Unfortunately, he was not a doctor. Unfortunately, he had not been able to make any exhaustive tests. And, thanks to the convenient breakdown of telephone and cars, it had been about an hour afterwards that the Superintendent appeared. Time, he felt certain, was going to be of great importance. It remained to be seen at what time the doctor would place the death. Of the Superintendent's attitude towards his own presence he had no doubts. Through irritation alone, he was glad of the bargain he had made with Catherine Garrow.

It was a surprisingly short time before Superintendent Kirke emerged from the room where the dead man lay, having completed, to his satisfaction at least, the necessary investigations. Even so, he ignored Marchant. It was Amberwood to whom he turned as he began his inquiry.

"Now, Mr. Amberwood!" he began smilingly. "The case seems straightforward enough... Mr. Garrow had been worried lately about something, hadn't he?"

"Mr. Amberwood, I'm putting to you questions you'll have to answer afterwards at the inquest. I'm asking you, had he had any worries lately? Had there been any trouble—well, between him and Mrs. Garrow?"

Even in the pause before Amberwood replied, Marchant wondered from what source the Superintendent had acquired his obvious knowledge of the circumstances inside the Garrow household. Quite possibly it was common gossip. In the country it was difficult to keep a secret. Certainly the Superintendent knew something.

"I can hardly answer that question, Superintendent," Amberwood replied after a moment. "Yes, I think that Mr. Garrow had been worried. He never told me anything about it. I don't know the reason."

"You think that the relations between the deceased and Mrs. Garrow were the normal relations between husband and wife?"

"Really, I can't say!" Amberwood flushed. "I should have thought that Mrs. Garrow—"

"Thank you, Mr. Amberwood. I shall see Mrs. Garrow later. She was out of the house when her husband died, wasn't she?"

"I don't know." With some satisfaction, Marchant noted that the Superintendent had managed to put what might have been an excellent witness to his case on the defensive. "I believe that Keyne couldn't find her when Mr. Marchant came. But I know nothing definitely about it."

Amberwood actually laughed. "You'll find that out better from his bankers than from me," he said after a slight interval. "I had no grounds for supposing so. I had always understood that he was a particularly wealthy man."

"Exactly." Kirke smiled with satisfaction. "He had no grounds to be bothered about his work, then, Mr. Amberwood?"

"I wouldn't say that," the secretary replied quickly. "I happen to know that for the past few weeks he hadn't been getting along too well. The question is, whether that was worrying him, or whether it was the worry which prevented him from getting on with his work."

Once again Marchant marvelled at the discretion which a little irritation could call forth. He would never have credited Amberwood with the capacity for being so exact a witness. But the Superintendent nodded approval.

Amberwood hesitated. Marchant noted that he had coloured a deep crimson. It might have been nerves, or annoyance at the Superintendent's manner. He was not sure.

"Yes, there was something." The reply surprised both Marchant and the Superintendent almost equally. "About two months ago I know that Mr. Garrow received a threatening letter. At the time, when I showed it to him, he only laughed at it."

"Two months ago, hey? That's a long time. Did it say anything special that you remember?"

"It's a long time." Amberwood hesitated. "From what I remember of it, the writer seemed to think that Mr. Garrow had done him or her some kind of injustice. I don't know any more."

"Two months ago," the Superintendent repeated. "Well, we need hardly trouble about that. He had received none since?"

Internally Marchant grinned at the reserved answer. He was thinking of his conversation with the secretary. Of course Amberwood had seen no threatening letters; for the excellent reason that, for the past six weeks, Amberwood had seen only such letters as Garrow had handed to him to answer. It might be cause and effect. He made a mental note of the fact.

"That seems to bring us back to his home life." Kirke asserted after an interval. "Would you say that that was happy? There was no suggestion of another man, hey? Nothing like that?"

Amberwood hesitated, and his hesitation was sufficiently obvious to Kirke, who had been waiting for nothing else.

"Now, Mr. Amberwood," he said persuasively. "You've got to remember that this is a serious matter. We're trying to find out why Mr. Garrow shot himself. Of course, I quite understand your hesitation. But I want a plain answer. Had there been any such suggestion?"

Superintendent Kirke smiled. To him, that answer was as good as a more positive statement.

"Well, Mr. Amberwood, I think that's all," he said placatingly. "Oh, there's just this. Had Mr. Garrow been in good health?"

"I'm not his doctor—any more than I'm his banker. He'd not complained of anything."

"Thank you, Mr. Amberwood. That's all at present... Now, Mr. Keyne! You've been in Mr. Garrow's service for some time, haven't you? For how long?"

"Now, I want you to think carefully." Superintendent Kirke paused with becoming solemnity. "Have you noticed any change in Mr. Garrow, lately? Since his marriage with Mrs. Garrow, at least?"

Mentally, Marchant protested against the way in which the questions were put. Kirke had obviously heard something. Equally obviously, he was all out to get the death explained as suicide following disagreements between husband and wife. In his knowledge of Garrow, he laughed at the idea of any such simple cause.

Keyne was obviously uncomfortable, trying to balance his obligations to his mistress and late master with the Superintendent's official position.

"Mr. Garrow had been worried during the last few months, sir," he said at last. "I was never informed about the reason, sir."

"Have you, of your own knowledge, seen Mr. Garrow unduly perturbed about anything recently?"

"One of the maids had found what I had thought was a new cigarette case of Mr. Garrow's in Mrs. Garrow's boudoir, sir. She handed it to me, and naturally, I tried to restore it to Mr. Garrow... I was sure it was his, because it had the letter G engraved on it, sir. But it seemed as though he hadn't seen it before. It might have been Mrs. Garrow's sir."

"It might." Kirke eyed the butler with what was meant to be a compelling force. "Have you ever seen Mrs. Garrow smoking?"

The mere innocence of Kirke's manner might have warned an erring child. Again Keyne hesitated.

Keyne flushed. To a butler the insult of likening him to two maidservants, a cook and a chauffeur was penetrating, if too subtle for Kirke to have achieved deliberately.

"I believe Mr. Garstane smoked them, sir," he said stiffly. "He was often here. Regarding the wall paintings in the church which Mr. Garrow was having restored... No doubt he left it sometime, sir."

"No doubt. In Mrs. Garrow's boudoir." Kirke smiled. "Then you'd describe Mr. and Mrs. Garrow as an ideal married couple, would you? There were no disagreements?"

Keyne paused, and in his face the struggle between what Marchant guessed to be loyalty and his respect for the law was absolutely apparent.

"No, sir," Keyne recovered himself. "I know of no reason, sir. He had always struck me as the last gentleman to do such a thing, sir."

"Right!" Kirke assented. He had half turned to Marchant to question him in his turn, when the appearance of the doctor made him postpone the interview a third time. "Well, Doctor? What's the verdict?"

"The verdict will be for the Coroner, Superintendent." The rolling of the R's was, in itself, sufficient to tell Marchant that he had to do with a Scotsman. "I can only speak as a doctor."

The doctor paused before he answered, long enough to draw from his pocket a large watch of the turnip type, which he carefully compared with the clock above the mantelpiece.

"It is now a quarter to eight," he said deliberately. "By the clock in this room, eighteen minutes to eight... You'll understand, Superintendent, that a variety of factors enter into a question of this kind. What we chiefly go by is the temperature of the body and the extent to which rigor mortis has set in. Now—"

"You can explain that to the Coroner, Doctor!" Kirke laughed. "How long has he been dead?"

"Certainly more than an hour—more nearly two. I would even admit that he might have been dead for three hours, given the proper conditions, you'll understand, Superintendent. But not more. No, I'd say that it couldn't be more. Though, mark you—"

"Thanks, Doctor. And I suppose you formed some opinion regarding the cause of death?"

"The cause of death appeared to be a bullet imbedded in the brain," the doctor replied with caution. "This was sufficient to cause death—"

"One might, Superintendent, if one lacked experience!" the Scotsman answered crushingly. "But I've found it wiser to guess nothing. The bullet had been fired during life. The deceased had apparently fallen straight forward. There was no indication that the body had been moved—"

"Not having recovered the bullet yet, Superintendent, I couldn't tell you definitely. But, judging you'll understand by the outside appearance of the wound, I'd say that a gun of that calibre could inflict it at close range."

"An inch or two at the most. Probably touching. But, if you'll pardon me, Superintendent, I'll be able to give you a fuller and more accurate report later."

"And, if you'll pardon me, I'll be going," the doctor continued. "Mrs. Porford is expecting. I misdoubt it may be twins!"

"Now, Mr. Marchant!" he said briskly. "You've only a slight acquaintance with Mr. Garrow, I understand?"

"A mere holiday acquaintance," Marchant agreed. "We stayed at the same hotel for three weeks."

"Exactly. I understand that you had a letter from Mr. Garrow this morning, asking you to come down at once. What reason did the deceased give?"

"Only that a matter was troubling him which, for private reasons, he was unwilling to put in the hands of the police. I didn't bring the letter with me. I have it at my lodgings."

"Private reasons? We can guess what those are when a man calls in a private detective, can't we, Mr. Marchant?" Kirke's knowing smile, if possible, increased Marchant's dislike. He hardened his heart for the blow which he was going to deliver as the Superintendent continued. "Well, Mr. Marchant, you arrived here. What happened then?"

"The car wasn't there to meet me as I'd expected. I walked from the station. Coming towards the house, at about a quarter to six, or a little earlier, I saw lights flash up in a wing of the house which I have since understood was the studio. I reached the house at about six o'clock. Mr. Keyne opened the door. He went in search of Mrs. Garrow, who was out. I waited. Apparently Mr. Garrow had not informed anyone about my coming. Miss Jessica Garrow entered and spoke to me; then Mr. Amberwood. Mr. Amberwood said that I was to be taken to the studio at once. We went there. We rang the bell twice, and, obtaining no answer, rang the fire alarm. Miss Garrow then became frightened. I burst in the door. Mr. Garrow was sitting at his desk, dead. I touched the right wrist, but did not otherwise disturb the body. I noted that the windows were barred; that the second door was locked and bolted. I formed the opinion that death was due to a bullet wound at close range—"

"We've the doctor's evidence on that," Kirke interrupted rudely. "There's nothing else you can tell us, Mr. Marchant?"

"Yes." Marchant eyed the Superintendent with some compassion. "There is this, Superintendent. The wound was not self-inflicted, either by accident or with the intention of suicide."

"Immediately before his death, the deceased had apparently been using pastels," Marchant replied equably. "The powder from them covered his right hand. Through a magnifying glass, I examined the butt and trigger of the gun. There was no sign such as must have been left if he had used it... I doubt very much, Superintendent, if there are any fingerprints on the gun at all—though perhaps you have tested it? I believe Mr. Garrow met his death at the hands of a murderer, known to him, who wore gloves!"

CHAPTER VI
An Accusation

IN the next hour the chastened Superintendent had put in some really useful work. He had verified both the fact that the gun was without finger-prints of any kind, and the fact that Garrow's discoloured fingers would inevitably have marked any surface that they touched. He had done more. Inch by inch he had examined every window of the studio; had tested the lock and bolts of the smaller door, and had, as far as possible, done the same to that which Marchant had forced to obtain an entrance. And he was not satisfied.

On testing the gun, his first impulse had been to apologise to the intruding amateur detective who had prevented him from making a serious mistake. In his heart he admitted that he had jumped to conclusions in assuming suicide. Perhaps if he could have found Marchant at that moment he would have made amends, but Marchant seemed to have disappeared into thin air. By the time Marchant re-appeared, a talk with Keyne and Amberwood, and the discovery of the studio keys in the dead man's pocket had caused him to change his mind. His face was even more forbidding than it had been before.

"Mr. Marchant." His voice was almost threatening. "I've been looking into that suggestion of yours regarding the gun."

Wrongly, Marchant attributed his hesitation to a natural objection to admitting himself in the wrong. It had, in fact, been intended as a significant pause to point the moral of what was to follow, and perhaps force the man to whom he was speaking to show some signs of disquiet. In this it failed.

"In more ways than one," Kirke informed him meaningly. "There are no finger-prints on the gun. And the dead man's hands would have marked anything they touched."

"Well then, perhaps you'll agree that there's been some kind of funny business?" Marchant had been quite prepared to let bygones be bygones; but Kirke had succeeded in irritating him again. "You see, someone else could have fired the shot—must have done."

"Not necessarily, Mr. Marchant. In fact, I think that I can go further. It wouldn't have been possible... After verifying your statement, I examined the room for possible means of entrance or exit. The windows do not open. The chimney is too narrow, and impossible to climb. The door at the far end, besides being bolted, was locked, as was that which you forced. There were two keys belonging to each of these. One set was kept in the safe. They are, presumably, still there."

"We cannot. Apparently only Mr. Garrow knew the combination. The other two keys were in the dead man's pocket. The lock is a difficult one—a patent type, impossible to pick..."

"We know that Mr. Garrow was in the studio from the time he was last seen by Amberwood and Keyne together: that he was locked in: that the only keys were inaccessible to any other person. No one could have gone into the studio, committed a murder, and got out again leaving it as we found it."

Mentally, Marchant was dissenting from most of Kirke's known facts. Unless a posse of reliable witnesses had been seated outside each door, it escaped him how the Superintendent could have known that Garrow had been in the studio all the time, and had not himself admitted someone, or gone out.

"It's puzzling," he admitted. "But, you see, something like that must have happened."

"Not at all." Kirke swelled with a triumph which was meant to be terrifying. "No one need have done murder, Mr. Marchant. Garrow could have shot himself, all right. Only—someone could have wiped the gun!"

For a second Marchant genuinely reproached himself for having overlooked a possible, if very unlikely, alternative. Then he smiled.

"I don't think that's any easier!" he answered lightly. "From the wound, it's pretty clear that Garrow didn't live long enough. And it would have been just as difficult for anyone to get in to wipe the gun as to commit murder—besides being less comprehensible."

Still Marchant did not understand. He was running over the incidents from the time when the lock gave until he had looked at the gun. And he was certain that it could not have happened.

"No good, Superintendent," he said at last. "I was there every minute of the time. I noticed the gun quite early on. I can swear that that didn't happen."

"You can, Mr. Marchant. But I've been talking to Keyne and Amberwood again. They agree that neither of them was ever in the room alone. They didn't even look closely at the gun. You can swear it wasn't touched—but nobody else can!"

Marchant jumped to his feet angrily as the point of the accusation dawned upon him. Until his sense of humour came to his aid he was really angry. Then he laughed, with a hearty abandon which disconcerted Kirke.

"It's no laughing matter, Mr. Marchant!" The Superintendent threatened. "You're the only person who could have wiped that gun, and that's the only thing which could have happened to it! And you had a motive. It would be a feather in your cap to make fools of the police—!"

"Impossible!" Marchant interrupted meaningly. His face suddenly grew grave. "Very well, Superintendent. If you think that, it's an offence in law, isn't it? Obstructing the ends of justice and so on. You're going to charge me?"

Kirke hesitated. He had been going to do nothing of the kind: only he had meant to threaten it.

"I suppose that you'll claim that I also cut the telephone wire? That I put the cars out of action? That I sent the threatening letter to Garrow two months ago? That, in fact, I'm responsible for all the curious things in this case?"

"I mentioned it as a possibility." The Superintendent quailed. "I'm just warning you not to interfere, Mr. Marchant. Otherwise—"

"So far, I have interfered in no way whatsoever. But I must inform you that Mrs. Garrow has asked me to pursue an independent inquiry on her behalf. Do you raise any objection?"

"If you don't interfere with police inquiries, I can raise no objection to that," Kirke answered stiffly. "That means that you'll be staying here, I suppose... All to the good. You'll be wanted at the inquest, of course. You can give what evidence you like then."

"I shall give whatever evidence I have to give—truthfully. And, now, if you have no further questions, Superintendent—"

"All right," Kirke assented surlily. The result of his effort had not been all that he had anticipated. Much as he would have liked to, he did not believe his own accusation in view of the way Marchant had received it. Perhaps there had been a murder after all. And, as he watched Marchant out of the room, it dawned upon him that his interviews had already revealed the most probable line along which to search for the murderer. So Mrs. Garrow had thought it worth while to be represented by someone even at this early stage. Until now, he had deliberately postponed seeing her. It looked as though the time had arrived to do so. He turned to the sergeant. "I'll see Mrs. Garrow, if she's free... And you might find out where Marchant's gone."

The sergeant's report must have been reassuring, for Marchant had gone no further than the dining-room, where, even in the face of the storms which were raging, Keyne had informed him that a cold supper was laid. He had not eaten properly since lunch time, and it was nearly nine o'clock. Nerves and brain alike tend to function less efficiently in a hungry man, and he felt that he would like to have both in good order.

He ate absently, only too well aware of the difficulties of his position. Perhaps it was the food which made him take a more charitable view of the Superintendent's conduct. After all, Marchant recognised that down there no one knew him. Apart from his own personal character, all the facts suggested Kirke's explanation to be the likeliest. He was not afraid of what the local police might do, but it was going to be a hindrance. If the case came to a murder charge, it might be an effective point for the defence to use. While he ate, he was concentrating on two principal questions rather than on the food. First, was it possible, after all, for Garrow somehow to have shot himself and by some means wiped the gun, or otherwise seen that it should bear no prints? Secondly, if this was not possible, who had entered the studio, and left it locking the doors behind him or her? And how? If true, Kirke's work in the matter of the keys made the matter more puzzling. He himself agreed that the lock could not be picked in any reasonable time without showing traces. He could think of only one solution. The duplicate keys in the safe must, somehow, have been used, and therefore the combination was known to someone other than the dead man.

He had satisfied his hunger and was smoking a cigarette when Amberwood entered, evidently with the same intention. At the sight of Marchant, he frowned, then nodded gloomily. His manner offered no encouragement to conversation, but when he had helped himself and sat down at the table, Marchant ventured to seek verification of Kirke's statement regarding the keys. Amberwood listened suspiciously as he repeated it.

"That's right," he assented. "The locks on both doors were special locks, from a London firm. There's a letter from them somewhere that'll give you the address. I don't know if they could be picked. Garrow thought they couldn't... Yes, the duplicates are in the safe, or should be."

"I didn't, if that's what you're getting at. How should I know if he told anyone?"

"Sorry. But this damn business has got on my nerves. First finding him dead, when I'm— Then that fool Kirke, with his cleverness and insinuations. And Jessi—Miss Garrow in hysteria, and all that—"

"Kirke had a go at me." Marchant grinned. "Accused me of faking evidence, and practically threatened to arrest me. Warned me to be careful!"

"What happens when sleuths fall out?" he asked. "Criminals come by their own—or someone else's... But I don't get all this fuss. You'd think it was a murder, or something. It's pretty straightforward, I should have thought. The old man shot himself. May have seen matters in the right perspective, for once..."

"Doesn't seem to have been exactly popular in the home," Marchant suggested: then, as the suspicion rekindled on Amberwood's face he hurried on. "There was bound to be a fuss. You see, he was a public figure. I don't know if the newspapers will have got on to it in time at this distance. But to-morrow, the place will be buzzing with reporters, I expect. There'll be no peace till the inquest's over anyway. Naturally Kirke is bound to be unusually careful."

"It's not his carefulness that bothers me," Amberwood growled. "But he goes about as though he hoped to trap all of us into a confession to a murder or something... And, of course it couldn't be murder. This business of the keys shows that, doesn't it?"

"It seems like it," Marchant evaded. He was thinking of his conversation with Mrs. Garrow. Apparently at least two members of the limited household were quite prepared to consider a murder as possible as a suicide, other things being equal. He wondered if Jessica Garrow shared their views. It flashed across his mind that her fainting and her subsequent illness had, perhaps conveniently for herself, prevented anyone from questioning her. Anyhow, why should anyone murder a man like Garrow?" he asked innocently. "I know he had his enemies, and that some people didn't like his work. But you don't kill a man because he paints badly, or deaths would be pretty frequent. From the little I saw of him, he seemed a good enough fellow."

"Then it must have been a little!" Amberwood snapped. "I suppose you'll think we're all damned heartless, but I doubt if there's a soul in the house who's sorry he's gone. Maybe—Miss Garrow is. I don't pretend to be. He's made the place a hell for us. I'd have left but for— You can't think what he was like to work for. You couldn't do a thing right. And suspicious. And mean... I told you that we had a row some time ago. Since then he's got his knife into me thoroughly. Before—well, I was the only one he treated decently. It bothered me. Of course, I was an outsider. That may have been it. I never could understand how I got the job."

"Curse my qualifications. I haven't any, if you want to know. I can type, and write shorthand rather more slowly than I type. I don't know a thing about art. I'm not much use at figures... Now, if you ask me, I can only think I look a good type of person to grumble at. That's what he wanted a secretary for anyway!"

Marchant's eyebrows had risen a little during this outburst, but he did not speak. Amberwood had got a good deal on his mind, and was in a mood to get it off. It was better not to interrupt.

"I think the way he treated Mrs. Garrow annoyed me most," Amberwood continued. "I could hardly stand that sometimes. You've no idea—"

"It's not true!" Amberwood flared out indignantly. "That business of Garstane—I'll bet that Garrow put the case there himself. Of course, she was with him a bit—and I wouldn't say that he wasn't fond of her. You know what these artists are. But there was nothing wrong."

"She isn't. As for her being free—well, I don't know. It looks as if Garrow fixed it so that she was going to be drawn through the mud all he could, doesn't it? And Kirke's helping all he can. He's having another go now. I'd have stayed, but he turned me out—"

"What?" Marchant rose quickly. "Why the devil didn't you tell me. She mustn't—"

Ignoring the secretary's astonishment, he turned hastily and on the point of leaving, paused to ask the simple question:

Marchant did not wait for him to finish. He was already hurrying along the passage. But he had not reached the end of it when the door of the room he sought opened and Kay Garrow emerged with the Superintendent behind her. She carried herself proudly, determinedly, and, knowing something of her iron self-control, Marchant hoped that she might have come out of such an interview better than he feared. But her face was as white as paper, and in the Superintendent's eyes he read a grim satisfaction.

"Mr.—Mr. Marchant!" There was tremulous relief in her voice. "The Superintendent—he thinks—"

"I've been suggesting to Mrs. Garrow that it might be as well if she was legally represented at the inquest, at least as a matter of form," Kirke broke in. "You are not her legal representative, I think, Mr. Marchant? You are merely investigating the circumstances of her husband's death?"

"That is so," Marchant assented coldly. "I entirely agree. I should even have suggested the desirability of someone being present while you were interviewing her, Superintendent."

"No more than you suggested that I—shall we say?—altered material evidence, Superintendent. But Mrs. Garrow is evidently over-wrought. I should suggest that she is hardly in a fit state to answer questions."

Superintendent Kirke made no answer. It was Kay Garrow who replied to avert the breach which she felt to be threatening.

Kirke nodded, but his eyes were fixed upon Marchant. Without a word to either, but with a last appealing glance at Marchant, she moved towards the staircase. Only as she reached the top, Kirke broke the silence.

"I am inclined to think that I should offer you an apology, Mr. Marchant," he said significantly. "At the time, the facts seemed to point at your having done what I suggested. Since then, other matters have come to light. Perhaps, after all, it was murder!"

Without waiting for an answer he stepped back into the morning-room, closing the door behind him. Marchant digested what had evidently been intended as a Parthian shot. Clearly Mrs. Garrow had said quite enough to encourage Kirke's suspicions against her. To-morrow, almost certainly after the inquest, things might take a more definite turn. It depended whether Kirke could find an explanation of the locked doors: and whether Kay Garrow could account for the time during which she had been absent from the house. It was urgently necessary that she should talk to him as soon as possible, but she would have gone to bed. That would have to be left until the morning. So, unfortunately, would Jessica Garrow. So would Garstane. The butler and the servants could wait. He decided in favour of Amberwood again, but returned to the morning-room only to find it empty.

Lighting a cigarette, he tried to think what to do next. He himself was tired. He recalled regretfully that the previous night he had scarcely slept at all. There seemed to be nothing that he could do, and he felt past thinking clearly. Finishing the cigarette, he rose to seek his room. The whole house seemed quiet, and the light in the morning room was out. Probably Kirke had gone, but if so, he had left his subordinates. He almost collided with the burly figure of the sergeant as he turned into the lounge.

"Good night, Sergeant. We're under police protection, then? Or is it supervision?"

"You mustn't mind the Superintendent, sir," he confided. "He's had some trouble, lately... I don't think he's had a wink of sleep for three nights. His wife's dying... When things are like that, sir, one isn't one's best."

"I didn't know—" Marchant admitted. In that moment he regretted some of the things that he had said. "I'm sorry. But couldn't he have left this—"

"Hardly, sir. And, anyway, he wouldn't. I'm not seeing that you don't know how it is... I'm not seeing that you don't run away, sir. But, you see, the door of the studio won't lock. So the constable's there, just making sure no one goes in. I'm relieving him later."

"Then you won't get much rest to-night!" Marchant said sympathetically. "I'm about dead myself. Good-night!"

As he got into bed, Marchant found himself pondering upon the regrettable way in which one tended to ignore the personal side of the official machine. After all, the Superintendent had had some grounds for being short-tempered, and it was not to be expected that his brain would be at its best for police work. And yet, of course, one always did expect it; a policeman was considered always as a policeman. Almost his last conscious thought before sleep overcame him was that he himself would extend the olive branch next morning.

How long he slept he did not know. Contrary to custom, his sleep was broken by most unpleasant dreams, in which the incidents of the evening found a part. He awoke suddenly, with the feeling of having heard something that was no part of them. The impression was strong. For a moment he sat up in bed, listening, before finally getting out of bed and tiptoeing towards the door. He opened it quietly, peering out into the corridor, and trying to remember the geography of the house. His room was a door or two away from the end of the passage most distant from the main staircase. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped out through the doorway and stood looking from one side to the other.

Suddenly, from below he heard a shout which he recognised as the sergeant's voice. From the end of the passage he heard a slight sound which he could not identify. He ducked sharply as something whizzed past his head, exploding with an unexpected pop, but no flash, somewhere in the passage behind him. The next moment turmoil seemed to break loose.

CHAPTER VII
A Struggle in the Dark

FEET thundered up the stairs quite close to him. Suddenly he remembered the stairs which led from the ante-room leading to the studio. He had an impression of a door opening somewhere near at hand, and of other footsteps thudding from the far end of the passage. He dashed forward, found someone, and closed.

At the same moment somebody gripped his leg. The sergeant's grip relaxed. He turned to struggle with this new opponent. As he did so a choking sound told him that his assailant in turn had been seized by someone else. His legs were freed. In the same second he realised the confusion of the struggle which was raging. The sergeant had got past him, and taken part in what was a three handed fight. For an instant, he himself was free of the combat. He felt his way along the wall. Somewhere at the stair-head there must be a switch. His hands found it. There was a click, but nothing more.

Somewhere above him, a feminine scream sounded. Almost instantly it was re-echoed. He clicked the switch desperately once or twice in the vain hope that a light would come. From the passage, gruntings and sounds of movement showed that the struggle was still in progress. Then the light came.

It shone from the far end of the corridor. Keyne, with his hand on the switch, was obviously the ministering angel. In his night attire, he looked comically undignified, but scarcely more so than the woman behind him. Mentally, Marchant registered her as the cook, before his eyes turned towards the human tangle which was beginning to unravel itself at his feet.

The sergeant emerged first, rubbing his head. For half a minute longer Amberwood and the constable continued locked in a grim embrace. As they disentangled themselves, a second scream called his attention to the stairs leading to the floor above, and the two women who clung to one another half way down. Clearly these were the maids. One of them he recognised, the parlour-maid, Alice. Both were almost in hysterics, but with the light a silence fell, broken at last by the sergeant.

A sudden doubt seemed to occur to him. He looked round, and, as he did so, his dishevelled look became more official. "Come along!" he invited. "Come on, all of you. We've got to sort this out."

The invitation was accepted hesitantly by the two maids. From the other end of the passage, Keyne and the cook advanced, serene and even with some dignity, in their innocence. The sergeant looked round on the group belligerently.

No answer was immediately forthcoming. Marchant took it upon himself to break the silence.

"I'm afraid that it was I who grabbed you, Sergeant," he admitted. "I heard a noise: then you came up the stairs. I didn't know it was you. Then someone grabbed me—"

"That was me!" Amberwood announced hoarsely. "I found a leg. Then that fool constable got my throat."

He caressed the damaged member feelingly. The constable looked sheepish. Even in his pyjamas, Keyne retained something of his composure. The sergeant glanced from one to the other doubtfully.

"So far as I'm concerned, it's easy!" Amberwood broke in with some heat. "I heard all hell breaking loose just outside my door. Of course, I came out. I grabbed the nearest—it must have been Mr. Marchant. Then someone—the constable, grabbed me!"

"I heard a noise," the constable defended himself anxiously. "I thought someone was trying to get away. I grabbed him."

"Someone tried to scrag me in the studio!" he averred. "It wouldn't be you, Wallis, you'd just been relieved. I heard you go upstairs... By what you say, it couldn't have been any of you gentlemen. Then, what happened?"

Cursing impatiently at the slowness of the wheels of justice, Marchant listened to the various explanations. The two maids slept together. Unlikely as it was that either should have tried to "scrag" the sergeant, both insisted upon that point. Both had heard a noise suggestive of fire, murder, and sudden death. Both had ventured out. No one had passed them. They had come down the stairs to see what was happening.

The story of Keyne and Mrs. Marley, the cook, was different only in details. Each had seen the other emerging from his or her bedroom door at the sound of the riot below. They had come down the nearest staircase—that at the far end of the passage. Keyne had switched on the light.

He glanced up towards the unlighted globe. As he did so, he remembered the pop which he had heard, and the thing which had whizzed past his head. For the socket was empty. Down the passage, the fragments of smashed glass glistened in little twinkling points of light.

"Someone took the globe out, and threw it," he announced. "That was what made you run along the passage, sergeant. Of course, you heard it burst. But I'd left my room already. The darn thing missed me by inches. No one came along here."

"Mr. Amberwood?" Sergeant Waltham turned towards the secretary grimly. "What brought you out?"

"I've told you—the noise!" Amberwood answered some irritation. "Why, dash it, it was like having a bear-garden outside one's door. I came out and grabbed the nearest."

Sergeant Waltham turned from one to the other hopefully, as though by a scrutiny of their faces he might be able to detect the lie. He was unsuccessful. As the policeman's eyes despairingly left the two maids, Marchant was conscious of something cold striking down his back through the thin silk pyjamas which he wore.

Briefly and luridly, Sergeant Waltham swore, but the lapse was excusable. He nodded towards the constable.

"Wallis, have a look!" he commanded. "The rest of you stay here. We'll get this straight!"

In less serious circumstances, Marchant might have laughed at the motley assembly. The sergeant, apparently, had sought to make his tedious vigil easier by loosening the collar and tie from his throat. Marchant and Amberwood vied with each other in distinctive pyjamas: the constable had mislaid his tunic. Keyne and the cook alone had had the presence of mind to disguise their night attire with coats. The maids shivered in inadequate, if decent, night-dresses. As he looked, Marchant became aware of something missing. The sergeant's next words told him what it was. He noted that the constable had vanished.

"Where's Mrs. Garrow?" he demanded. "Where's Miss Garrow? There's been enough row to wake the dead."

The butler felt the compelling official eye upon him. He volunteered an explanation with customary dignity, though breath seemed temporarily to have failed him.

"Mrs. Garrow's room is along the corridor, sir," he said. "At the far end. Perhaps she did not hear... Miss Garrow's room is along the other passage—"

"At right angles to this from the head of the stairs, sir. I have noticed that, along that passage, one cannot hear—"

"Anyway, I happen to know that Dr. Murray left them both a sleeping draught." Amberwood intervened with a trace of anger in his voice. "Of course, they've both slept through it. The doctor always overdoes his drugs, if anything. They'll still be asleep."

The sergeant looked round hesitatingly. He glanced at the window through which the constable had disappeared. Marchant suppressed an instinct to come to his rescue at the thought that, in all probability, the Superintendent would see his own sinister hand in this latest outburst.

"Shall I go and see about Miss Garrow?" Amberwood volunteered unexpectedly. "She was practically in hysterics. Even Murray thought her condition serious, and he's a heartless devil enough. It had better be someone she knows—"

The sergeant's eyes gleamed. Clearly the fact that her father's secretary considered himself the most assuring person to wake the girl had not escaped him, but he nodded assent. Almost at once, Amberwood had darted up the passage. Waltham looked from one to the other of the remaining group doubtfully. His eyes sought the window again, as if wishing for his lost constable. Finally, they lit upon Marchant.

"If you wouldn't mind, sir," he ventured timidly. "If you'd just see that Mrs. Garrow is all right—"

Marchant's eyebrows rose. He would have thought that one of the women would have been more suitable. Then he appreciated the sergeant's predicament and the implied compliment to himself. For, if the open window proved to have been a deception, whoever had attacked the sergeant was obviously standing there in the passage. Marchant did not know what "scragging" might consist of in the sergeant's vocabulary, but it seemed as though even the women might be capable of it. Only he, and Amberwood, were exempt, and judging by the look in Waltham's eyes even the secretary was far from safe. He nodded assent.

"Right at the end, sir. Facing the stair head, round the corner. Both doors are hers, sir, but the second is her dressing-room."

With a last glance at the sergeant and the open window, Marchant moved along the passage. Mentally, he was reproaching the sergeant for not having at once sent all his available forces into the garden. That Keyne, the two maids or the cook had been responsible for an attack on him was ridiculous. At the same time, he appreciated the puzzling alternatives which the officer had to choose between. As he turned the corner, Waltham was questioning the frightened group and, it seemed, getting answers with difficulty. Down the passage ahead, a lighted doorway showed where Amberwood was trying to arouse Jessica Garrow. Marchant knocked on the door.

There was no answer. There was no sound of movement. He looked down the corridor again. The lighted doorway showed where Amberwood, apparently, was still trying to arouse his employer's daughter. And Amberwood had set off before him. He must have been there for a minute or two before Marchant started. He felt a vague sense of indelicacy in these prolonged proceedings at such an important moment. Then he knocked again.

Only the silence answered him. Suddenly realisation of the urgency of the occasion flooded over his mind. Mrs. Garrow was already suspect for the murder of her husband. Her absence from the gathering at the far end of the passage was capable of a double explanation. Kirke would certainly think that she must have been roused by the din; that she had deliberately stayed in her room—or had just got back there. Marchant knocked thunderously; then, in mere desperation, tried the handle.

The door opened. Inside, all was darkness. Nothing stirred. He fumbled for the switch and pressed it. As the lights blazed up, he looked towards the bed. It was empty. Almost in the same moment he was aware that the window was open. He moved across the room towards it and looked out. It gave on to the roof of an outbuilding, and, just below, a shadowy form was crouching.

The figure stirred; stood upright and started to clamber up the roof. In silence Marchant helped her over the window sill. In the very act of doing so, he noted that she was fully dressed. Somehow he could not meet her eyes.

"I can explain!" she burst out indignantly. Even at that moment, it struck Marchant that she was indignant rather than frightened. "Really I can explain, Mr. Marchant."

"I—I had to!" He was aware that she was looking at him appealingly, but would not raise his eyes. "If you think that—"

Coldly, impartially, Marchant studied her. There was a high flush in her cheeks. She was breathless. But she was not frightened.

"You went out into the garden—at this time of night?" he asked. "By way of the window? And the sergeant was attacked—"

"I didn't know anything about that. Yes. I went out. I had to. To get something." She gazed at him appealingly, but his face was unrelenting. "I went out—to—to get something which I had left there—"

"No." There was fear in her face. "It wasn't there. It wasn't there. And I had to have it. Otherwise they'd think—"

"But I can explain, Mr. Marchant," she pleaded. "To-morrow, I will tell you everything."

"To-morrow may be too late." Marchant felt that his voice was harsh. "You didn't tell me before—"

Along the passage the sound of approaching footsteps made him break off. He looked towards the door expectantly. They passed, and in a moment were receding in the other direction. It had not been the sergeant, but Amberwood and Jessica Garrow. He drew a deep breath, as though a crisis had passed successfully.

There was a moment's silence. Then he looked up again. She met his glance squarely. For a matter of seconds their eyes battled, if it could be called a battle in which one side was fighting only to surrender decently. Marchant spoke first.

Kay Garrow's eyes went towards the bedside table, and the glass half full of colourless liquid which stood there. It was sufficient answer, but she attempted an explanation.

She broke off. In Marchant's mind, all his principles as a private detective struggled with one single primitive impulse, and the impulse won.

"Take it now!" he commanded. "Take it, get undressed, look sleepy when you come out. And wipe those shoes. Dry them somehow, if you can... I'll wait outside. You've about a minute."

He could not meet the look of gratitude which she gave him. As the door closed, leaving him in the empty passage, he was furiously angry with himself. He had always acted squarely so far as the police Were concerned. Now, merely on the impulse of the moment, for the sake of the attraction of a woman who might be a murderess, he had given up all that he most believed in. He barely glanced at her when the door opened. She was in her dressing-gown.

"Right," he said in a low voice. "Now, someone—as you may know—attacked the sergeant in the studio a few minutes ago. Everyone's there. You had your sleeping draught. You didn't hear a thing. I had some trouble waking you. Get that?"

"I—I don't know what to say," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I—I ought to thank you. I ought to thank you all the more, because you're doing this, and think me guilty. But I don't. I like you for it. But, you see, I'm not— I didn't—"

Along the passage Marchant could see the sergeant questioning Jessica Garrow. Clearly Amberwood was making himself a nuisance. He thanked heaven for it. Probably the fact that they had been a long time coming would never be noticed. There was no sign of the constable. The sergeant looked up as they advanced. Against his whole nature, Marchant himself told the necessary lie.

"Mrs. Garrow heard nothing," he reported, hating himself as he did so. "She has taken a sleeping draught. The sooner she is back in bed the better."

"I—I don't know anything!" The excellence of the acting which he himself had recommended made Marchant angry. "Mr. Marchant called me— Something has happened?"

Waltham stared from her to Jessica Garrow; from them to the servants. He had turned to Marchant when deliverance came. Through the window appeared the head of the constable.

"Couldn't see anyone, Sergeant!" he apologised. "There's not a sign outside. But there's a drain pipe, and a gravel path underneath. And it was a minute or two before I got out. Anyone might have got away. One might see by daylight—"

"Sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Garrow!" he said. "I thought there was someone in the studio. Probably I was mistaken... I think it would be better if everyone went back to bed. There's nothing to be frightened about—"

"There is! There is!" Jessica Garrow burst out excitedly. "I know there's something. I can't stand it! I won't go—"

"It's all right, Jessica." Mrs. Garrow's voice came soothingly. "You'd better not go back to your room alone. The sergeant has told you. There's nothing wrong. Come with me..."

As Kay Garrow led the hysterical girl along the passage, both Amberwood and Marchant watched them. The servants had already vanished. Waltham's voice broke in on the thoughts of the two men.

"You'd better go to bed too, gentlemen!" he Suggested in a voice which was almost a command. "Nothing more will happen. You can be sure of that."

"I'd sooner be alone with the constable." Waltham's refusal was polite but firm. "Good night, gentlemen!"

Marchant glanced at the policeman as the secretary's door closed behind him. What he saw gave him no encouragement. With a final nod he entered his own room. He flung himself on the bed, but not to sleep. The dawn was breaking, and a pile of cigarette ends had grown to disgraceful proportions before weariness overcame him.

CHAPTER VIII
Scotland Yard Takes Charge

IF Marchant got little sleep that night, he had plenty of companions in misfortune. Though Superintendent Kirke would have felt justified in tackling a straightforward suicide with the men at his disposal, a murder likely to attract so much attention was a different matter. He believed thoroughly in the efficiency of the county detective staff; but he was painfully aware that, no matter how well they might work, unless they proved successful, Press and public would blame the police authorities for not having asked help from Scotland Yard.

The first Marchant knew of his hurried consultation with the Chief Constable which had kept the wires busy all night was that he was being shaken insistently by the shoulder. He stirred, opened his eyes drowsily; then sat up with an exclamation.

Inspector Donald McClean, of the Criminal Investigation Department, eyed him more in sorrow than in anger. He looked tired. As one who had slept only inadequately on the back seat of a fast car, the bed and Marchant's luxurious pose in it excited his envy. He shook his head in reproach, and his glance wandered towards the pile of cigarette ends.

"Smoking all night and sleeping all day—who wouldn't be a detective for pleasure?" he murmured. "It's nine o'clock and you're still giving your famous impersonation of Rip van Winkle—even down to the beard... Really, I've half a mind to pinch you, Davy!"

"Pity he didn't. I was just through with a case—one of those nice little jobs which are as dull as a wet Sunday in Wales and make you work like the deuce. And then you have to start all this business, and drag me down here in the small hours... I suppose there's no hope of persuading you to confess you wiped that gun? In an absent-minded moment, you know. We'd let you off light."

"Not a hope!" Marchant smiled. "I'm afraid you're for it. And I'd bet it's another long job, too."

"I wonder," McClean looked at him thoughtfully. "I gather that you will be, too? You're working for the defence, aren't you?"

"Yes, I think so." McClean nodded soberly. "If you'd not scared them, I don't believe that they'd have called us in. It's cut and dried against her."

Marchant's smile vanished. He knew McClean was not a man who was in the habit of jumping to conclusions. That he should speak so positively at so early a stage augured the worst.

"I'll have a warrant to-day—and I guess I'll have to use it. I wish I hadn't. By all accounts she was pretty well driven to it—but she must have done it."

Marchant got out of bed and reached for his clothes. His laziness had been banished by what he had heard. He drank the cup of luke-warm tea at a gulp.

"Not the least... After all, if you see any holes in this case, I'd sooner know before we get to court. Starting at the beginning, if we assume that neither you nor anyone else wiped that gun—"

"It seems to rule out accident and suicide automatically? Yes. That's what I thought. But I'm not sure... We'll look into that later."

"That leaves murder intended to look like accident or suicide—a pretty deliberate, cold-blooded murder with only one mistake—not pressing the dead man's hand on the gun. And, first of all, it's Mrs. Garrow's gun. She says she's not seen it for weeks; and I admit that it doesn't mean much, except that she had the weapon. Then, whoever shot Garrow was someone well known to him—some one who could walk right up to the desk, put the gun to his head and fire. You agree?"

"Yes. Besides, the whole affair shows inside knowledge, of the house, of Garrow's habits and so on. That's certain."

"Well, we'll begin with Garrow. He marries a second time, a young, attractive wife who's his social superior—by birth, I mean. It's no secret that they've not got on well for years, and that he treated her like a brute. Probably he was unfaithful, too. His reputation suggests it. But she doesn't believe in divorce—"

"People are funny. Everyone's morality has little twists... It's quite possible... Then Garstane appears. Garrow gets him down to uncover some mediaeval decorations, on the parish church walls. He's her own age, handsome, and, I gather, of a passionate disposition. He falls in love with her—"

"Wish I had. I'll tell you about that later... Garrow gets to know about it. He's got evidence of something between them. There's a terrible row. Probably he threatens her. He sends to you. He fixes an appointment with his lawyer—"

"Things are pretty desperate for them. She, or she and Garstane, take the only way out. They kill Garrow, and stage everything to look like suicide. Then they take fright. They decide to bolt—even start to do it. That's when they cut the telephone and damaged the cars. Then they get their nerve back. To run away would be to risk the whole thing. Mrs. Garrow comes back to the house. She's been for a walk—doesn't know a thing. Just for a walk—rambling round! And it was getting dark, with a lovely Scotch mist and as cold as the North Pole..."

"You're going too fast for me. I've not heard of all this. That's Kirke's work?"

"Yes. The servants witness the row... It's a guess, of course, that they cut the telephone wires and damaged the cars... But I know that Mrs. Garrow was bolting, all right. I can prove it."

"Kirke's men searched the garden. They didn't find anyone. But they did find an attaché case with Mrs. Garrow's initials, containing clothing, money, all the things you'd need for a week-end—or that she would—and with her name on them. They've been identified. So she lied there, anyhow."

Marchant's heart sank. He was thinking of his hurried interview with her during the night. That was what she had gone out to find. And yet the mere fact brought hope. At least she had not been the intruder who had tried to scrag Sergeant Waltham.

"I've a witness who saw him hurrying away from the house, over the fields, at about six o'clock. He got his car out in a hurry and drove off. But he didn't leave the village, or he came back. He was seen about seven, driving north. And that's the last we have seen of him!"

"I'd say that it looked more as if Garstane was guilty than Mrs. Garrow... But that's a point you've hardly settled yet. When did Garrow die?"

"It's a darned important point. Everything hangs on it. And we've only got that fool of a doctor for medical evidence on the spot."

"Murray's a cautious man!" Marchant smiled. "Not less than an hour and a half. Maybe two hours. Maybe three. I expect he'd make it four or five if you pressed him!"

"He did!" McClean laughed ruefully. "You couldn't have a worse man in a case like this. Not that he's a fool or doesn't know his job. But he was disappointed once while young, and got ticked off thoroughly. Nearly hung the wrong man by being too definite in a case where all the circumstances were exceptional. So now, he's verra, verra cautious—drat him!"

"I'm not a medical expert," Marchant admitted. "When I found him, I'd have said he'd been dead for an hour at least. But I don't know."

"Making—let's see? About half-past five... You didn't take the temperature, or anything. Quarter of an hour—half an hour. You might easily be so much out."

"No anxiety really. Mrs. Garrow can't account for her movements, so far as witnesses are concerned, for a full three hours. Only, I'd like to know... I've a witness who says that he saw the lights go up at about a quarter to six. Three, in fact—"

"Four," Marchant amended. "I saw them. Yes, at a quarter to six. Maybe earlier... That is—you mean the studio lights?"

"Yes. You saw them too? Thank the Lord for that! But the butler, one maid and the cook saw them... And what are we to think about that?"

"Either Garrow turned them up," Marchant supplied. "And in that case he was still living. Or the murderer turned them on. Or some third person turned them on for reasons unknown. That isn't likely. But it's possible."

"I'm not worrying about your third possibility," McClean answered. "No. It was Garrow, or his murderer. And the murderer didn't stop long. So, the switching on of those lights shows that Garrow was either alive, or had just been murdered. That works in with your estimate of the time of his death, allowing for error of a quarter of an hour. I believe we'd be safe in saying Garrow died at about quarter to six—giving five minutes each way."

Marchant nodded. "I should say that's right," he answered. "But, even so, that doesn't say... You've been into the alibis of the rest of the household?"

"Good heavens above. I only got here at seven. I might just as well ask you... Besides, do they matter? The point is that Mrs. Garrow, at least, on her own admission, hasn't an alibi. And Garstane's bolted."

"Well, and there's a duplicate key in the safe—we think. We'll know soon. Isn't his wife the one person to whom Garrow might have told the combination? She could have taken it out and put it back."

"But, she didn't!" Marchant averred with an emphasis which was more faith than knowledge. "Now, I'm going to shave. If you make me cross, I'll probably cut myself. Then I'll swear. That would be deplorable."

"Just a minute," McClean insisted. "Then there's last night's business. By all accounts, it might have been any of you. But it took you a long time to wake Mrs. Garrow, didn't it? Was she in bed, or up with her dressing gown on?"

"Really, this is almost indelicate!" Marchant protested. He was thankful for the snowy beard of lather which hid a considerable portion of his face. "No, as a matter of fact, she wasn't in bed—"

"But, she didn't go along to see what the row was... Had she had her sleeping draught?"

"I noticed that the glass was empty when I left," Marchant replied carefully. "But, if you're thinking—"

"She could have poured it somewhere. Because, I may as well tell you, I had a pretty good look round as soon as I heard what had happened. There are no prints under the landing window. But, if the evidence of the senses means anything, Mrs. Garrow got out of her window last night, what's more, I've a cast of one of her footprints... Right, I'll see you after breakfast. Don't cut yourself!"

As the door closed behind him, Marchant started upon the delicate operation of removing a day's growth of stubble with a mind which was scarcely suited to it. Of course, McClean had seen. He might have known it. McClean might even guess at what had happened. He wished that he could tell the whole truth. He even felt that it might be better. Of course, Kay Garrow had gone out for the bag which she had left. But that bag in itself aroused sufficiently unpleasant reflexions to make him think hard. He had almost made up his mind to go to her and tell her that his interest in the case was at an end when he finally descended the stairs.

He breakfasted alone. Routine had established itself in the household, doubtless under Keyne's impassive eye, and it would have been a good breakfast. But he was not hungry. McClean entered as he finished and grinned at the two tufts of cotton wool which adorned Marchant's face.

"An alum pencil's better," he suggested. "I'll lend you one... Been thinking it over?"

"Yes!" Marchant snapped. "I've thought it over. And I'll admit that the evidence is pretty black. Only, I don't believe it. Do you?"

"I've not even seen Mrs. Garrow yet!" McClean protested. "She seems to have made a hit with you. I'm only going on the evidence. And you?"

Marchant did not answer at once. He lit a cigarette and puffed once or twice, largely to gain time.

"We've got no evidence yet," he said firmly: then, as McClean made a comical grimace, he hurried on with a trace of temper in his voice. "Oh yes. You've a good enough prosecution case. I suppose you'll find Garstane. And I expect he'll have a lame enough story to tell. But it's only suspicion. We don't know—"

"We know quite a bit. At least enough to ask Mrs. Garrow to do a bit of explaining. But what worries you in particular?"

"Just that we don't know enough. We know Garstane and Kay Garrow had a motive. Do we know if anyone else had? We know that they had opportunity—or think we do. Did anyone else? I think we ought to ask—to ask everyone; every possible person—"

"One thing. You said it was murder made to look like suicide. Couldn't it have been suicide made to look like murder. I knew Garrow. He'd a nasty enough nature for it, if his temper was up—"

"And a sufficient disregard for his own life?" McClean asked dryly. The shaft went home, and Marchant did not answer. "The one thing everyone seems to agree upon is that Garrow wasn't the kind of man to kill himself... Besides, how could he and wipe the gun afterwards?"

"I was thinking of that. He might have held it in something—a piece of paper, say, which would float away."

"Only, there isn't a sheet of paper. He might have had a string tied to it with a weight—or a hydrogen balloon—or something like that. Only, you see, there's nothing there. I looked at the studio. So did Kirke. And he looked thoroughly. There's nothing there."

"By the way," Marchant asked suddenly. "It's a minor point. But what was he using the pastels for? There was no sign of a sketch or anything—"

"Oh yes, there was. Right under his head. But he, or someone else, had turned it over. Of course, you didn't move the body, so you couldn't see it. It's a bit stained, but clear enough. He was drawing a girl's face."

"A girl's face?" Marchant remembered the other bit of paper which had been crumpled beside the desk. "What girl?"

"No one we've identified as yet. Anyway, it wasn't finished... Well, there's my case—roughly. Until I get Garstane. And we're sure to do that. Now, what about yours?"

Marchant ground the cigarette viciously against the ash tray as he tried to collect his thoughts. You've not explained everything by any means, he said. "One thing, who was it who went to the studio last night? You say Mrs. Garrow, I suppose. Why? It seems to me that whoever went wanted something that was there—"

"She didn't get it. Waltham grabbed whoever it was almost at once—or tried to. Then there was that mêlée upstairs. Looking at it coldly, it might have been anyone—not excluding you and the constable!"

"What was the person after?" Deliberately he evaded the pronoun. "You've no idea of that? It seems to me that one of the first things we've got to do is to have another look at the studio. Then you say everyone present last night could have gone to the studio. On our knowledge so far, doesn't that apply to the murder? In that case the possible suspects are Kay Garrow, Jessica Garrow, Amberwood, Keyne, the two maids, the cook, and even Parsons—"

"No. But he comes in a different category. Presumably someone would have had to let him into the house. Whoever it was hasn't mentioned it. And the same person might have let him in last night—"

"I'm not out to hang the wrong person if I can help it. All the evidence, I maintain, is against Mrs. Garrow. But I've no objection to interviewing all the others to see what happens. And, if we can prove any given number of them innocent it strengthens my case. I was going to see them, anyhow. In fact, if you've finished digesting your toast, we might begin!"

"You. You know your own story. I've had it second hand from Kirke. But you can tell me a few more things. That letter—you're sure it was genuine?"

"Perfectly. But that can be tested. I've sent for it already. It only paid me a few compliments and said there was a job in which he didn't want to call the police. That's all. Only, somehow, it struck me that he was scared. That's why I came."

"All psychic, eh?" McClean grinned. "Now, you wired Garrow your train. He wired saying there was a car meeting you. You arrived—when?"

"Four fifteen. I wasted a bit of time looking for the car and afterwards trying to get something else. Then I walked. It must be all of four miles. I saw the light as I was coming up the hill. I got to the house, about quarter of an hour later, and it was just after six."

"Couldn't have done. Keyne sent Parsons right down to collect my bag. It must have been after that... I gather Garrow meant to have told Parsons about the car and didn't. Everyone seemed to think that natural enough."

"No. Only, looking back, it struck me that he was a bit over-anxious to be amiable with me. It might have been my personal charm, of course. But I'm not sure."

"I shouldn't be, either. Then, it may have started as long ago as when you met him. And what it is simply shouts at you, doesn't it?"

"Blackmail?" Marchant asked. "Yes. I thought of that. It's the most likely. Any more questions?"

He leaned over to touch the bell. Neither spoke before Keyne answered it, but Marchant was wondering who the next on the list might be. His question was soon answered.

"Miss Garrow's up now, isn't she?" McClean asked. "Good. Would you ask if she could see us for a few minutes? As soon as possible."

CHAPTER IX
Complications

"You see, I want to play fair, if I can," he explained. "And, as a matter of fact, there's not much more that Mrs. Garrow could give us, from the point of view of convicting herself. Unless she broke down with a confession. We'll try out the others first. For the time being I'll leave her to the defence."

"Not yet. I've an unprejudiced, unbiased mind, I'll do the questioning, shall I? Chip in if you see anything—where it won't matter from my point of view."

He was lighting a cigarette as Jessica Garrow entered, and Marchant wished that he could imitate the casual air of the professional.

"You wanted me?" Jessica Garrow glanced from one to the other of the two men who had risen to their feet as she entered. She was pale, and there were dark rings round her eyes as though she had slept badly: but she gave Marchant the same impression of being completely self-possessed as when he had first seen her. But there was a difference. Then, he thought, she had been expecting something to happen. Now it was as if the worst had already happened, and she was resigned to whatever might follow. Her eyes turned to McClean. "You wanted me, Inspector?"

"Just a few questions, Miss Garrow. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid that your father's death may not be as simple as we hoped. There are one or two things I should like to ask, if you don't mind. If you would sit down—"

Jessica Garrow sat down obediently. Her eyes moved restlessly and settled on Marchant. He seemed to read in them a look of desperate inquiry. Then she turned to McClean.

"He was murdered?" she asked. Both men started at the question, but her voice was perfectly calm as she continued. "That is why you are asking so many questions, isn't it?"

"Now, I wonder why you think that, Miss Garrow?" he asked sympathetically. "We don't quite understand what should have led your father to kill himself. You were on good terms with him, weren't you?"

"Yes," she assented. "We had been on good terms. That is, so far as father was on good terms with anyone. He was—" she hesitated. "He was not always easy."

"Did anything that has happened recently give you the impression that your father might take his life?"

"No. He had been worried. I am sure that it was his imagination... You see, Inspector McClean, anyone who uses his imagination a great deal is bound not to be—quite normal. I think that I was the only person who quite understood that. It was why we got on so well together."

"Not Mrs. Garrow?" There was merely decent surprise in McClean's question. "I should have thought that she—"

"No." The girl dissented calmly. "They didn't get on. They had too many characteristics in common, and not enough understanding. Mrs. Garrow expected him to be the hero she thought she had married. As his daughter, I knew that he wasn't."

Jessica Garrow smiled, an inscrutable smile, in one respect. In another, it was clear enough that she saw the trend of McClean's questions.

"There were quarrels," she admitted, "but probably no more than the average for a marriage. Only, both being temperamental, they were dramatised. And Kay is incurably faithful in things like marriage. Daddy wasn't. He didn't see it that way."

Marchant saw McClean move a little restlessly. Perhaps so detailed an analysis was not to his taste; perhaps he felt guilty about trying to extract evidence against Mrs. Garrow from a witness partly called to prove her innocence. He tried a new line.

"Not long after lunch." Jessica spoke with perfect control, though Marchant had half expected an outburst. "I, and Kay, and Mr. Amberwood all saw him about the same time. He said he was going to the studio. Nothing else. We saw him say something to Keyne; then he went up the lounge. That was the last time I saw him, until—"

"Outside the door of the dining-room. We had just finished lunch, rather later than usual."

"Then what did you do?" McClean smiled. "You see, I'm just anxious to find out exactly what happened to everyone that afternoon."

"I went out for a walk until tea time. I just got back in time for it—at quarter past four. It was a little early. I suppose that it took us about half an hour—Mr. Amberwood, Kay and myself."

"Oh, no! We were lucky if he came in for lunch, you know. He'd miss any meal if the fit took him."

"Mrs. Garrow went out first. I stopped for a minute or two. Then Mr. Amberwood had some business to do. I think he went to the office. Then I went out too and read a novel."

Marchant had noted the slightly quickened breathing as she gave this last answer. He caught McClean's eye and intervened.

"I—I don't remember!" Her self-control was shaken, but she recovered herself quickly. "It was a new one that I'd just got out of the library. Just a thriller. I'm afraid I'm silly about titles. I could easily find out. I left it on the couch when you came, Mr. Marchant."

"Then you were reading all the time until Mr. Marchant came?" McClean interposed. "Where was that, Miss Garrow? In the drawing-room?"

"Yes, of course." There was eagerness in her voice. "I just sat and read. I'd no idea that anything was happening."

"The maid didn't notice you when she came to clear away the tea-things," McClean said in a voice which made melted butter seem rough. "And, let me see, when Mr. Marchant came, Keyne couldn't find you. Which door did Miss Garrow enter the lounge by, Mr. Marchant?"

"I'm sorry! Of course, I made a mistake!" Jessica Garrow had coloured, but she broke in before Marchant had time to answer the accusing question. "I was in the drawing-room for a time. Then I thought that the maid would be coming in, and I didn't want to be disturbed. I went to the snuggery." She smiled, or her lips at least did. Marchant noted, that the anxious eyes did not change accordingly. "I'm sorry, Inspector. I'm not used to the terrible accuracy that you expect as a policeman!"

"It's a name we have for the little room at the top of the lounge. Well, it's hardly a room. It's an alcove, rather."

Marchant asked. "Now I come to think of it, I saw your book lying on the couch there."

Her smile faded suddenly, as though she had suddenly realised that it was in danger of becoming a fixture. Marchant heard McClean draw a deep breath. He hoped that the girl had not.

"The maid came in to clear at ten minutes to five," the inspector mentioned casually. "You had gone before then, you say. And you sat there all the time, until Mr. Marchant came. Did you see anyone at all?"

Jessica Garrow had gone white to the lips. There was no denying the effect of the simple question, but she made a brilliant recovery.

"No one," she said with an effort. "I got tired of the book, came out and found Mr. Marchant."

"From the alcove, so far as I remember, you can almost see the studio door," he suggested. "You could certainly see if anyone had entered it. You're sure—you're absolutely sure, Miss Garrow, that no one passed that way while you were sitting there."

There was the faintest trace of a pause before she answered, but the reply was positive and assured.

"If the book was interesting—" Marchant suggested. "It's funny how one can be absorbed sometimes."

"But it wasn't!" She smiled at Marchant. "I'm absolutely certain that no one passed."

Marchant was puzzled by her sudden conviction. He had more than half expected that she would take the way out which he had offered. McClean's face had grown stern.

"I want you to listen to me carefully, Miss Garrow," he said in a new voice, which held a suggestion of a threat. "I must tell you that we have grounds for thinking that your father was murdered. You, apparently, thought the same. It was you who insisted that the door should be broken down. Now, if anyone entered that room to kill your father, it was during the time you sat there. And whoever it might be could come in by no other way than that door which you say you had under observation all the time. I want you to think carefully. Are you sure that no one passed?"

"Absolutely sure!" The assent came readily, but Marchant was puzzled by the light in her eyes. It reminded him of paintings of martyrs dying gladly at the stake. "So, of course, it must have been suicide, Inspector!"

McClean's jaw had set like iron. He looked at the girl for a moment. She did not quail before his eyes.

"It could not have been, Miss Garrow," he said sternly. "Understand that. Suicide was impossible. Do you see what that means?"

"I am making no accusations, Miss Garrow. I am merely asking you if you would be prepared to swear by the statement which you have made?"

Jessica Garrow nodded dumbly as though she could not speak. There was utter misery in her face, though she tried to hide it. And there was fear too.

"One moment, please, Miss Garrow," McClean asked suavely. "If you would excuse me and wait here with Mr. Marchant for a moment—"

He had risen to his feet as he was speaking, and without waiting for her consent moved towards the door. Left alone with Marchant, Jessica Garrow sat for a moment as if in stunned silence. Perhaps it was not that. She looked up at Marchant abruptly, and he was astonished at the passionate hatred in her eyes.

"You—you—!" she began. "Why did you have to come? Why did you interfere? I don't care what they do to me—"

She broke off. Marchant scarcely knew what to say. Even how he could have offended he could scarcely guess.

"I came because your father asked me to come, Miss Garrow," he answered a little stiffly. "I am staying because—" He broke off, but the surge of his emotions demanded expression. "Don't you know that, unless something happens, Mrs. Garrow may hang?" he asked brutally. "You're lying to us. There may be a warrant against her at any moment. Probably the Inspector has one in his pocket. And you're lying. Do you want to convict her?"

The minute after he had spoken he felt that the words were inexcusable. For a few seconds she stared at him in dumb anguish. Then she covered her face with her hands and threw herself forward on the table in a storm of passionate weeping. Yet Marchant eyed her unsympathetically. For him the one fact was that a witness who might save Mrs. Garrow was deliberately refusing to speak.

As he entered, McClean regarded the tableau with a sardonic eye; yet there was a trace of sympathy in his voice as he spoke.

"That's all right, Miss Garrow," he said soothingly. "Don't you worry... I think we've had enough for the present. If I were you, I'd go and lie down a bit. Of course, it's been a shock."

The girl raised herself, slowly, looking from one to the other with tear-stained face. There was no hatred in her glance now, Marchant decided. If it showed anything it was sheer hopelessness. Without a word she turned and left them.

"That's that!" McClean sank into the chair again wearily. "And I must say that, with women your velvet glove touch must have iron studs in it. What made her go like that?"

"I'm afraid I was stupid," Marchant apologised. "I simply said that I didn't believe her, and that Mrs. Garrow might hang."

"Nothing else?" McClean asked with some sarcasm. "And yet, you've every reason to be grateful to her. You should be the last person to complain." He saw Marchant's expression of bewilderment and smiled pityingly. "Your brain's fogged. Too much sleep. Too many cigarettes. Don't you see that, if what she says is true—"

"For the defence, I'd keep quiet about that. Don't you see that, if her evidence is acceptable, it means that the biggest possible hole's been knocked in the case against Mrs. Garrow?"

"Why, you're muzzy in the head!" McClean broke out irritably. "When did the light in the studio go on? At quarter to six. From ten to five until you came, the girl swears that no one entered by that door. No one could have got in any other way, or out. That leaves Mrs. Garrow just ten minutes to get the key, let herself in, and do the murder, leaving everything O.K. I don't say it couldn't be done. But then, how do you explain the fact that the light went on an hour later?"

"It means, if we believe Miss Garrow, that she herself was the only person who could murder her father. I don't. But from what I see, you'd better. At any rate, it means that there's a bigger mess than we thought. You were right. It's a long job."

Marchant's gaiety subsided abruptly. At that moment, he saw clearly, Kay Garrow, if she were accused, would stand a fair chance of acquittal—perhaps at the cost of a few aspersions on himself such as Kirke had suggested. It would prove nothing. Least of all would it prove the doubt which troubled his own mind. He gave something very like a groan.

"It's a fact, I'm not up to form," he admitted. "You're doing everything. I even hesitate to ask what's the next step."

"That's been taken already," McClean replied grimly. "It's Mr. Amberwood. I just wanted to be quite sure that he didn't see Miss Garrow before we saw him. He's coming now."

This time McClean did not rise as the secretary entered. He held up his hand to restrain the departing sergeant who had brought his latest victim.

"You might wait, Waltham," he ordered. "I may need you... Good morning, Mr. Amberwood. If you wouldn't mind sitting down, there are one or two things we'd like to ask."

Amberwood glanced uneasily at the sergeant sitting in a chair which completely cut off his escape by way of the door. There was a suggestion of the trapped animal in his expression as he obediently took a chair.

"Now, Mr. Amberwood," McClean said easily. "We just want to straighten up things. It's funny that no one heard the shot or anything."

"Maybe." McClean smiled at him like a father. "Just the same, we want to know when death took place. And we'd like to know where all the household was at that time. About the death—when did you last see him alive?"

"Why, I suppose about two o'clock, or just after." The secretary seemed to have been reassured by McClean's manner. "We lunched together, the four of us. Then Mr. Garrow said he was going to the studio. He stopped to talk to the butler and went right away."

"I was not!" Amberwood rejoined bitterly. "I went upstairs to the office—that's next to my room—and worked. Didn't come down till tea time."

"I think it was about ten past four when I heard the bell. It was a bit early. I came down. Mr. Garrow wasn't there. The three of us had tea. At half past four, Keyne came in to say that he'd made preparations for Mr. Marchant. I didn't hear what he said exactly, but I caught the name. We finished about a quarter to five."

"Of course, you don't have to answer any of these questions unless you feel like it, Mr. Amberwood," McClean assured him. "Only I can't see what objection you have to saying—"

"I went back to the office," Amberwood answered sulkily. "I worked for a bit. Then I came downstairs. Mr. Marchant was there, talking to Miss Garrow.

"Then you didn't see anyone between the time you went upstairs and the time you saw Mr. Marchant in the lounge? You were in the office all the time?"

The secretary hesitated before replying. He seemed to be trying to read in McClean's face what he ought to say.

McClean leaned a little back in his chair. A worried frown blended with a smile on his face as he spoke.

"Then, I suppose, if the maid, Alice, says that she went into the office at about half-past five, and there was no one there she must be mistaken?"

"Yes!" Amberwood blazed angrily. Then his eyes fell. "I—I wouldn't be sure. I went out once, to wash my hands. I was gone a few minutes."

"And you didn't meet anyone on the way?" McClean asked. "There was mild bewilderment in his tone. "Let me see, the bathroom's at the top end of the corridor, isn't it? There were no doors open? No servants about?"

"Sorry," he apologised. "I thought you meant... Now I come to think of it, I've a vague idea that there was someone in one room. I can't remember just which. It's only an impression."

"I quite see, Mr. Amberwood," he approved. "Well, I think that's all, at the moment. I may want to see you again later. Sorry to bother you."

There was immense relief in the alacrity with which the secretary rose to leave. He had gone half way to the door when McClean spoke to Marchant.

Amberwood whirled in a flash. The next moment, he was standing over McClean, glaring at him angrily.

"Looks bad for who?" he demanded ungrammatically. "See here, what are you getting at? I'll not have it said—"

The Inspector's look conveyed no more than mild surprise. It suggested that the secretary had been guilty of some inexplicable piece of bad taste. Amberwood turned abruptly. They heard his indignant feet hastening down the passage.

"I heard of her this morning," McClean said equably. "She's a lady whose acquaintance I have still only a prospective pleasure in making... But she worked, didn't she? And I've either smashed Miss Garrow's alibi for Mrs. Garrow, or doubled it!" he sighed. "I wish I knew which!"

Unexpectedly, as Marchant was on the point of entering, the sergeant who had taken his departure in the wake of the furious secretary returned.

"Phone message for you, Inspector," he said. "They've found a man they think is Garstane. They're holding him."

"It had to happen," McClean rose to his feet. "Right. Hold the line, Sergeant. I'll come." He smiled at Marchant triumphantly. "This is my lucky day," he murmured. "And it's early yet!"

CHAPTER X
On the Cliffs

IT seemed to Marchant that the Inspector had been an unconscionable time talking. Or rather, he was not talking, but stood with the telephone receiver to his ear, only now and again snapping a brief question, and the bewilderment grew in his face as he listened.

"Right, Superintendent," he assented at last. "We'll start at once... Well, we should be there in about twenty minutes. Don't do anything until we come, unless you can't help it. But, of course, you'll use your own discretion. He may bolt... So long."

Even then Marchant's curiosity was not immediately satisfied. McClean turned to the sergeant.

"Get the car, Waltham," he ordered. "You stay here, and hang on to the 'phone... You'd like to come, Marchant? I'll tell you as we go. Wait here a minute."

Marchant was left standing there as the inspector and sergeant hurried off. Waltham returned first. Like Marchant he was evidently mystified. He seemed to have made up his mind that Marchant was on the side of the angels, for he ventured to express his thoughts.

"You're as wise as I am, anyhow," Marchant shrugged. "By the way, the 'phone's all right now?"

"Yes, sir. We found the cut. Near the bathroom window, where the line enters the house. Might have been either an inside or an outside job, but it was deliberate, that's certain... And the cars. Parson says that someone had stuffed the exhaust pipes with mud."

"Not a bad trick, that?" Marchant smiled. "Of course, they'd just choke themselves with the spent gas whenever one tried to start them... He's no clue as to when it was done, or who did it?"

"The cars weren't used that afternoon, sir, until he took one to the station to get your bag. That was all right then. So it happened afterwards... Car's ready, sir."

Only after the car started and they were speeding along the lane towards the main road did McClean volunteer an explanation.

"Of all things yet, this makes the least sense. Garstane, if it is Garstane, must have gone clean off his nut. Last night a farmer about eight miles along the coast found one of the lanes leading to the cliffs blocked by a car. He had the deuce of a job to shift it so as to get his cart past, and happening to see the local bobby on his weekly round registered a complaint. When the bobby got back to the station, he found that the number was one which was wanted, and hurried back hopefully. He wasted an hour or two waiting, then went back and reported. Kirke took some men out to see what was happening. They couldn't see a trace of Garstane, till a labourer told them that there was someone on the cliffs who seemed to be acting a bit queer. They finally spotted him this morning, right out at the end of the headland. Then Kirke got on the 'phone to me. He's surrounded on the landward side."

"Suicide, you mean? I thought of that. That's why I didn't let them rush him... It's hard to see what else he'd be doing there, isn't it? He couldn't hope to escape or hide there... Though they tell me that there was a bag packed in the car, too. Like Mrs. Garrow's."

"It strengthens your case, if anything," Marchant admitted reluctantly. It depends what he says—"

"Or if he says anything. As for my case, you could drive a wagon through it at the moment, though I'm open to bet it's sound enough. It only shows that the great art in being a detective is to know when to stop investigating! Wish I could know it... What did you make of those two?"

"Jessica Garrow and Amberwood? Oh, I don't know. They were both lying for some reason. About where they'd been since tea time, and what they'd been doing. If we could accept it, it would acquit everyone of everything—except me."

"But you don't, do you?" With a sigh of relief McClean guided the car round the curve into the wider main road. But when we say that they were lying about what they did and where they were, we've got to particularise a bit more. The girl started by lying. When we spotted that, I'm inclined to think she told some of the truth. You saw the book there in the snuggery, didn't you?"

"A book," Marchant emended. "And she'd read it so carefully that she didn't know the title. Besides, it was newly bent open on page two."

"That's where she started lying. Then she lost her head and told the truth for a bit. She went to the snuggery to read, all right. Something stopped her. What?"

Marchant knew as little about the answer to that question as the Inspector, and at that moment was even less inclined to theorise.

"I think that his was mostly lying. He was too ready to change it. You noticed how that little sentence brought him back at the end? Who do you think he thought that I was talking about?"

"Why, I'm an ass!" A light broke on Marchant. "I never thought it could mean anyone but Mrs. Garrow. Of course, he was thinking you meant Jessica Garrow... He's in love with her. That's obvious."

"And she with him? I don't know. That young lady is a ticklish customer. The whole bunch is. Hang all artists."

"The only artist is effectively disposed of already—no, there's Garstane. But he may be by now. Are we nearly there?"

"Look out for a turning towards the sea in about a mile. It's a rotten track... But when you saw Miss Garrow, she didn't look as if she had just committed a murder, or even helped, did she?"

"I couldn't make head or tail of her. She was on her guard about something, but she's a pretty good actress, I'd say. She was scared when she heard who I was."

"He's the terror of Bill Sloggins and the man who'd do a scoot!" he quoted. "She must be a good actress! And they both came in by the same door. And how was Amberwood?"

"Surly, distinctly. Seemed to have a general grouch about the world—and still does. And now I come to think of it, right from the beginning he was putting out hints and feelers to see if I thought it was murder."

"Suspicion grows. We've four possibles now. Mrs. Garrow, and Garstane, separately or in combination, Miss Garrow and Amberwood—separately or in combination. Any more?"

Marchant switched his attention to the road ahead. For a minute or two there was silence. Marchant felt annoyed with himself. His mind was not doing its best. Somehow the personal issues confused him, and whereas he normally regarded a crime as calmly as a chess problem, in this case he felt that he could not get far enough away to see things in their right perspective. He was all too conscious that Mrs. Garrow loomed much too large in his scheme of things. "You know, you're not feeling yourself," McClean remarked unexpectedly. "Where are the brilliant theories? Where are those flashes of insight?... It's Mrs. Garrow, isn't it?"

"There!" The gesticulating figure of a constable on the skyline saved Marchant the trouble of answering a question which he wanted to avoid even in his own mind. "It must be the turning—"

McClean smiled. He was still smiling as the car drew to a stop beside the constable, and his smile was sympathetic with the cynicism of his fifteen years of greater age.

"Inspector McClean?" the constable asked. "Down here, sir. About three quarters of a mile. The superintendent's waiting."

"Jump on!" McClean waved a hand towards the running board. "And hold on, if you can. High heavens above, what a road!"

His complaint was more than justified. The constable, clinging precariously to the side of the car, was barely able to gasp out a few odd remarks, in the intervals of dodging the overhanging boughs, or clinging to his rocking perch when the surface became particularly bad. From them they gathered that Garstane was still where he had been when the police first sighted him. He had sat there motionless for over an hour. There was little more to hear when at last McClean braked to a stop beside a group of three men who stood near the farmhouse where the last vestige of a roadway ended.

He extended a pair of field glasses. McClean took them from him, focused them carefully, and gazed for a moment towards the rocks which the Superintendent's finger had indicated. He moved them for a minute over the intervening country; then, without comment, passed them to Marchant.

The figure on the cliff edge was plain enough. It was that of a young man of about thirty, seated on one of the boulders in an attitude strongly reminiscent of Rodin's "Thinker," and, though the face itself was indistinguishable, even at that distance it was possible to make out the sun glinting on the hair and beard of an unusual golden tint. As he looked, Marchant saw that it was going to be one thing to see him and quite another to reach him unobserved. The ground between the rocks and the wall where the fields ended was absolutely bare. It was going to require clever stalking to approach the quarry; and a glimpse of his pursuers might be sufficient to decide Garstane into taking an action upon which Marchant felt sure that he had been pondering.

"Where are your men?" McClean asked as he handed back the glasses. "It's going to be tough—"

"That's what he will do, if I'm any judge. We'll have to creep up, somehow—two or three of us. You've not an ex-poacher among your lads, I suppose? No. Anyone you'd recommend?"

"Harper would be about the best." Kirke seemed a little nettled by the suggested antecedents of his subordinates. "And Clarke. They're both smart men."

"You stalked deer in the Highlands in your youth, I think," he said. "I grovelled on my tummy in South Africa quite a lot in the war—but I was being hunted mostly. What do you think?"

Marchant considered. "The far side's the only hope," he decided. "The rocks are close to him there. One might creep up and get a hold on him, or get between him and the sea. Two others get fairly close from just behind him, so as to come to the other man's help, if it came to a struggle. With one to cut him off this way, going as far as the gorse allows, we should do it."

"I agree." McClean glanced again through the glasses. "You'd like the post of honour, wouldn't you? I'm getting too old, anyway. I'll take Harper and try the middle. Clarke can go this way—"

"You can stand by, though. It's a bare chance our getting him. If anything goes wrong... Right, Davy. You go off first."

The wall bounding the fields made the first part of Marchant's way easy, and at the far end he turned to see that McClean and the constable were already following. Out of sight of the seated man, beyond the slope of the hill, there was no more to do than keep his footing on the rocky slope ending in a hundred-foot precipice to the rocks below, but that occupied all his attention. It was when he rounded the far end of the point that he began to exercise most care. Crawling up to the crest, he peered over a gorse bush, searching the opposite edge for the man he was hunting.

Almost immediately below he saw him. But between him and Garstane was a stretch of open hillside, and, immersed in his thought, as the other seemed to be, he dare not risk it. A further compass round was necessary before he reached the clump of rocks which he had marked through the glasses, and he peered out again.

Garstane still sat there, motionless as though he was carved in stone. He was only three or four yards away, but the ground between was covered with broken stones. In spite of the shelter the rocks gave, it was going to be difficult to cross the intervening patch. He wondered if McClean and the constable were in position. Inch by inch he had begun to worm his way forward when he was aware that the seated man was rising.

Almost like a man sleep-walking, Garstane rose to his feet, staring out over the blue sea below. At the movement Marchant had crouched down, but as Garstane took his first deliberate pace forward he sprang into sudden activity. There was no more than five feet between the other and the edge. He did not even glance round as Marchant's feet slipped on the stones. From above came a warning cry, just as Marchant sprang. Still as slowly and deliberately as if he did not know what he was doing, the artist was just stepping off.

In the first second Marchant thought he had been too late. The next he was afraid he had not been. Not in time to stop the fall, he had still just managed to grip the tail of Garstane's coat, and the shock as he took the weight of the body almost pulled him down the cliff. Flung prostrate, he felt himself being dragged inch by inch nearer to death. A stone gave him a moment's purchase, but it was no more than a respite. Even in that moment he found himself marvelling that Garstane, suspended over vacancy, had not once cried out.

Feet were running down the hill behind him. He heard McClean calling something. But they could not come in time. He knew that he had just one second to make the ghastly choice between letting the man go or going with him. He hung on grimly. Then the decision was made for him. With a sound of rending cloth, the coat which he gripped tore and parted. Marchant fell back gasping, on the very verge, dimly aware of a splash an immense distance below. McClean's hand dragged him back. He rose to his feet, white and shaken as the constable advanced cautiously to look over the cliff.

"I—I missed him!" It was the one fact which he fully realised. "I was too late."

"Wasn't your fault. I'm sure he never heard us. It was just that the idea came to him at that moment, and he did it. Just like that!" McClean grinned mirthlessly. "Queer, isn't it? Mad as a hatter. Maybe it's better—"

Marchant plunged towards the edge; but his first glimpse of the water seemed to nauseate him. He staggered and would have fallen if McClean had not caught him.

"Sit down!" the Inspector said firmly. "Sit down there—well back. That's right... Hi! Kirke!"

For a short space Marchant sat there helplessly, living again those ghastly seconds as the cloth gave. Mingled with the nightmare in some obscure way was the thought that somehow this was the final proof of Kay Garrow's guilt. It was the thought of that which finally revived him. He sat up feeling sick and weak.

"Good man!" McClean was standing coolly on the very spot where they had struggled, looking down. He turned round as Marchant stood up. "Kirke's got him!" he announced. "He sent men scrambling down as soon as he saw you struggling. Now, we'll see. You feel better?"

"Not a bit." The constables had joined them, and McClean led the way. "Heights have never bothered me—because I've never looked like falling. But I remember once in Africa, just before I came home, I had a bad time with a snake. We sat and watched each other for—well, it seemed a week." He laughed. "When I came home, I went to the Zoo with a young nephew and got as far as the door of the reptile house. They brought me home in a cab!"

Marchant laughed at the thought of the fainting Inspector, but McClean insisted.

"It's true! You may laugh, but—" he broke off. "We'll just slide down and have a look... No, they're bringing him up."

It seemed an unendurably long time before the heads of two perspiring policemen appeared above the cliff edge. With the two more who followed, they supported an improvised stretcher, with Kirke bringing up the rear.

"Is he bad?" McClean looked down at the blood which was staining the soaked hair at one side of the head. "He's alive?"

"He's breathing," Kirke grunted. "Funny how inefficient suicides are. He would choose a spot where there was enough water to break his fall and not enough to drown him... Not but what he'd have done it, if we'd not been sharp in getting him out."

"Probably there's one at the farm by now," Kirke answered surprisingly. "I sent a man to 'phone old Murray. Thought he might be needed."

Perhaps Marchant's incredulous appreciation of his forethought was somehow apparent to the Superintendent. He looked round smilingly.

"Nasty minute for you, Mr. Marchant!" he observed, and clearly he intended it as a peace overture. "I believe I'd have let go sooner... I saw through the glasses."

"I might—if I'd thought about it!" Marchant laughed as the procession wended its way across the fields. "I believe I was too scared. I'll dream of that cloth tearing, and the splash."

Dr. Murray in person met them at the farm entrance. In the parlour of the house, he got to work as soon as Garstane had been deposited on the long settle by the window, interjecting various remarks, on and off the point, as he did so.

"Mad, ye say, Inspector? Speaking in the ordinary, unmedical sense, I'm thinking... There's little broken. Near two hundred feet, and not a rib gone... A sore dint. That's what'll trouble him. There may be a wee bit of concussion. I doubt the bone's pressed in... Ay, he's to hospital as soon as may be."

"But, will he live?" McClean asked impatiently as Murray rose erect and stood looking dubious. "Will he talk?"

"More cold water, Mrs. Wilsdon!" Murray ignored him for a moment. "As for his living, I'm not gifted with the gift of prophecy. He's a chance, if we're quick. You want him to talk, Inspector? Then you'll wait a few days—or weeks. Maybe years. I wouldn't say definitely. He'll not talk until—"

As if in contradiction of the doctor's one positive assertion, the unconscious man's eyes flickered and opened. He stared up at them wildly, unseeingly.

"But, Kay, you must!" he whispered hoarsely. "You must! I'll kill myself. I can't stand it. You've got to... If he were dead... You silly swine, you're not chipping up the Strand with a pneumatic drill. Gently! That'll be St. Christopher—the porcupine effect. Fourteenth to fifteenth century... You can't stand it... If he were dead..."

His voice died away. The eyes closed again. Murray bent down hastily over him. He stood up with a look of chagrin.

"Contrary deevil!" he reproached his senseless patient. "But, it's but delirium, you'll understand, Inspector. Medicine has its miracles. You can never tell."

Marchant was silent as, with Garstane safely installed in the ambulance and speeding to hospital, they retraced their steps towards the car.

"Anyway, that bit about the porcupine struck me as being utter raving," McClean observed suddenly, perhaps in an effort to comfort him. "I didn't get that at all."

"He's been chipping off plaster in the church to uncover mediaeval paintings," Marchant explained, "St. Christopher was shot to death with arrows, wasn't he?... But it's the rest that bothers me."

The Inspector made no answer. They were a very silent pair as he drove the car homewards and in Marchant's mind at least the conviction was growing that an explanation from Kay Garrow could not longer be deferred.

CHAPTER XI
A Confession

THEY had nearly reached the doorway when Marchant brought himself to speak about what was primarily in his mind.

"Spring the news of Garstane on her, tell her where she's been lying, bounce her a bit and try to surprise her into a confession, eh?" he asked. "It might be done that way. It might even be a short cut. But, no, I'm not going to do that at the moment. In fact, I'd even thought of getting you to break the news to her!"

"You see, one way and another, the time's past for doing that—or it hasn't come. This morning, I might have said it was the thing to do. Since then, Amberwood and Jessica Garrow have done their little bit of play acting. There's something behind that. It may be in her favour, or it may not. I've a curiosity to find out before I push matters to extremes. They'll have had a chance to talk it over. We've seen what they could do in the way of lying independently. Now we'll see what they concoct together, knowing that we don't believe what they've said already... I'm going to ask them both together to see me in half an hour. It'll give them time to be nervous and fix things. And, in the meantime—"

"If you should happen to see Mrs. Garrow, you might save me trouble... You see, things against her are pretty bad—so bad that I'm disposed to give her every chance. She's not told the truth to us so far. It's just possible that, in view of the shock of what's happened, she might tell the truth to you. If we make it a full dress questioning, with official warnings and so on, she'll tell us some more lies... It's terrible the way people lie to policemen. It isn't as if they were good at it!"

Marchant did not answer. It was only when the car had drawn up at the door and they had dismounted that he turned to the inspector.

"Not a bit. It's professional caution emerging. When a person's once hanged, you can't unhang them. And when a person's once charged, you've got to convict, or endure the blot on your reputation... Besides which, I don't really like hanging innocent people... You might send the sergeant to me, would you?"

Even in his glimpse of the sergeant in the minute during which he delivered the message, Marchant sensed the air of mysterious importance which Waltham seemed suddenly to have acquired, but he was past troubling about it. He had sent Keyne in search of Mrs. Garrow; but in fact it proved unnecessary. The butler had hardly departed on his errand when he encountered her on his way to the library where he had arranged the interview should take place. Her face lightened as she saw him.

"Not good, I'm afraid." Marchant answered soberly. "I'll tell you about it, but not here. We'd be quiet in the library, shouldn't we?"

Her face paled, but she said nothing. She followed him obediently, and took the chair which he indicated before she spoke.

"Well, Mr. Marchant?" she asked with a forced gaiety. "You look—as though you'd just come to warn me to flee while there is yet time! I'm not going to do that, you know... So you can tell me the worst!"

"It's pretty bad." Marchant hesitated, then plunged. "You probably know what they're saying about you and Garstane," he said bluntly. She coloured, and yet he did not think that it was guilt. "Naturally the police were interested in Garstane. Only he seemed to have driven right out of the picture at seven o'clock last night. This morning they found him. He was mad. He must have hung about on the cliffs all night. We tried to get hold of him. He jumped over. But he's not dead. He said a few words—about—about you, and wanting you to go away. He may die. They've taken him to hospital."

"Poor boy!" There was a world of sympathy in her tone, but nothing more. The words were the last which Marchant had expected. She waited for a moment before she continued. "Poor boy... You know, I was afraid of that. He was a nice boy, but—unbalanced. Only I didn't think—"

Marchant broke in impatiently. His very anxiety took the form of irritation at the remote way in which she seemed to treat what might be of vital importance to her. He spoke more cruelly than he need have done.

"He's not dead—yet. He said enough to make the police more suspicious than ever. He'll probably say more. You must see that it makes things worse. If McClean weren't a decent sort, he'd—he'd have—"

"He'd have arrested me already? Yes, I wondered why he didn't. I thought that it was you." She smiled enigmatically. "So, after all, you have come to warn me to flee from justice? The car is waiting; tickets are booked to South America—"

"No!" Marchant snapped. "But I want the truth. You've lied to us. You're making things worse for yourself—and God knows, they're bad enough. I don't know—" He broke off hopelessly; then hurried on in a desperate appeal. "You must see it, Mrs. Garrow. If I didn't believe that you were innocent, I'd not try to go on with it. But I've got to know what happened."

"You never really asked me," Kay Garrow answered with a calmness which amazed him. "Yes, I lied to Kirke. I was frightened. He trapped me into saying all the things I didn't want to say. It would have been no use telling him the truth. I lied, and seem to have done it badly." Her eyes searched his face. She gave a little convulsive sigh; then smiled again. "I don't know that you're in a very much more receptive mood than the Superintendent was, Mr. Marchant! But I'll tell you. You can believe it or not. And I'm afraid it won't help my case anyway."

"As you say, people have talked about Mr. Garstane and me," she said at last, in a low, collected voice. "There was nothing in it. You've got to believe that. I never understood quite how it came about myself. Only, Garstane was a good deal at the house. My husband was generally busy, and though he knew Garstane was the right man for the job, and didn't want to quarrel with him they didn't get on together. I had to act as an intermediary. I saw him a good deal. He was a nice boy, but he needed looking after. He was clever in his own way, but he wasn't always sensible. He thought that my husband was ill-treating me. And it was plain enough. So he pictured himself as a kind of knight errant coming to the rescue. He wanted to take me away. He'd got the kind of nature which can't realise that a woman who speaks two or three words to him kindly needn't be violently in love with him. I never loved him at all. He didn't seem a man to me, but a boy. I suppose the psychologists would say it was my maternal instinct or something like that. But he was unhappy, and I tried to look after him. And we were unlucky. Inexplicably unlucky. That was what bothered me."

"I don't understand myself. But whenever there was a situation which could appear compromising, my husband seemed to be there to interrupt it. James wasn't—wasn't the type to be faithful to his wife himself. But he had always known I was. It looked as if something had suddenly made him suspicious, and as if someone were spying on me so as to bring him along at the wrong moments. It was—well, like Desdemona in Othello. I could almost believe that there was a Iago plotting in the background, but it was probably only bad luck... Things came to a head only yesterday. Then my husband—died."

"But if there was nothing wrong—!" Marchant had risen to his feet and was pacing the room in an agony of doubt. "You could have told—"

"My husband wasn't an easy man to explain to, Mr. Marchant. He was glad to have something he could reproach me with. And yesterday he found it. I think he must have manufactured it. You see, I know that Richard left his cigarette case in the drawing-room. Looking back, I can remember his putting it down. But one of the servants found it in my boudoir. Keyne thought it was my husband's and gave it to him. My husband drew the worst conclusions. And, by mere bad luck, no one had seen us during the time he was here. He spoke to me about it. He threatened divorce. I don't think he could have got it, but I was frightened. I told Richard when he rang me up that afternoon. He worked himself up into a dreadful state... Or rather it would sound heartless to say that he really revelled in it. It was just the kind of heroic and dramatic situation he'd been hoping for, though he didn't know it himself. He wanted me to run away with him. That was where I was a fool. I did."

Her eyes were fixed on Marchant appealingly. Then they dropped. She bit her lip, and he saw her knuckles whiten on the arm of the chair.

"It's not easy to say this," she went on with sudden harshness. "I'd always thought that I was—well, more or less self-sufficient and controlled. I don't like admitting weaknesses. But I was tired out. You can't think what it can be like for a woman when I didn't care what happened. I wanted to get away. I agreed to go, packed my bag and went out of the house. No one saw me. Of course, as I was carrying a case, I couldn't let them see me. I met Richard."

"We finished tea just about a quarter to five. It took me a little while to pack my bag and get out. I remember hearing the clock strike five. When I met him, it would be about ten-past five. It was in the garden, at the top end by the summer-house... I don't think that he really believed that I'd come, because, after all, he hadn't made the arrangements. And, seeing him, I didn't believe in it myself... He was angry with me. But I felt I had to make a last effort. I thought that I'd go and see James, make him listen to me. Richard tried to stop me. He was angry, but I went. The police must have found it?"

"I couldn't leave it there... I don't know where everybody was, but I didn't see anyone. I went straight along to the studio and rang the bell. I rang again. James didn't answer, I don't know if he heard or not. Sometimes he wouldn't answer, if he was busy. But I waited. I must have waited for five or ten minutes, ringing the bell. Once I called out. The door was locked. I was sure he was in there. He didn't answer, and I came away—"

"I can't say definitely. It hadn't really taken long. It might be about half-past five when I left the house again. Richard was waiting. It sounds cruel to say so but he was—ridiculous. And I did the one thing which he couldn't forgive. I laughed at him. I suppose I was hysterical. I couldn't help it. There we were, set for the highly dramatical business of running away, and he'd got a smut on his nose. And he was really screamingly funny. Of course he was furious. Most men would be. We had a long argument, and he grew more and more angry—and the more angry he grew, the funnier it seemed. I'm not sure that he'd have taken me at the end, but I'm sure I couldn't have gone... You see, it was the lapse from the sublime to the ridiculous. One has to keep one's illusions or one can't go on."

"Then?" Marchant prompted, but she did not go on at once. He waited in an agony of expectation, and yet, with his own growing assurance that he was hearing the truth, he began to feel more cheerful. "What happened then?"

"Nothing." Her voice was hardly audible. "That was just it. If that poor boy dies, I shall be to blame. And he meant to help me. And I was cruel to him, but I couldn't help it. I was terribly cruel—"

Her voice died away. She stared for a moment at the fire unseeingly; then looked at Marchant.

"You see, it was because nothing happened that he tried to kill himself," she explained with a kind of desperate eagerness. "That, and the fact that I'd laughed. He wasn't really a person with a good opinion of himself, though he struck many people as being swelled-headed. He had to pretend that he was marvellous, and I'd spoilt the pretence. I think he saw all his bad points too clearly, and it unbalanced him. He must have driven right off, and gone to where the police found him, brooding all night. If I'd known—"

"I couldn't. I saw the lights go up in the studio, and the mere thought of having to see my husband was something I couldn't face. I wandered off along the cliffs. You see, that part was true. Only, I suppressed things. Then I came back. I'd just wanted time to think. I'd made up my mind that things were impossible, and that I'd leave James. They told me when I got in that he was dead. Keyne met me at the door and broke it gently." She smiled mournfully. "He was the personification of tactful grief... But it was more than I could bear. I think I was a little mad when I spoke to you. I was imagining things."

"I think that I do. I don't know why, but it's so obvious you and the police don't think it's just suicide. And I can't think of anyone who would really want to murder him. He might have done it, knowing that I'd get suspected. I believed that at the time, because he really hated me at the end. Only, as the Superintendent said, he wasn't the kind of man to revenge himself that way. He'd have found some way by which he didn't suffer himself."

In Marchant's frown she must have read what was passing in his mind. He did not meet her eyes, but he knew that she was looking at him.

"And, now I've told you, it's no better," she said at last. "You may as well tell me. I can see it."

"It is better!" Marchant spoke with an effort. "Because I believe you, and, so far as I'm concerned, it straightens out one bit of the tangle. I know that you're not guilty—"

"No. Not unless you can swear that he didn't go to the house after leaving you. He might have done... But though I believe you, it doesn't help the case against you. I'm going to be quite truthful. It makes it worse. Looking at it from a critical point of view, you admit that you were desperate; that you were going to leave him, that you can't account for most of your time, except with the help of Garstane, who is also suspect. What is worse, you admit that you went to the studio, at a time when he could have been murdered—"

"Unless the murderer switched them on. That's possible. But even after that, you were wandering along the cliffs. You didn't meet anyone. You can't prove where you were... We've got to find out who really did it... Or how he managed to make it look like murder. If only—"

A discreet knock sounded on the door. He broke off and crossed the room to open it. It was Sergeant Waltham who stood outside.

"If it's not interrupting you, sir, Inspector McClean asked me to let you know that he'd be glad to have you with him in the morning-room," he said diffidently, and Marchant caught his curious glance towards where Kay Garrow was still sitting. "But if you're busy, sir, he said not to disturb you."

Kay Garrow had risen, and came towards him as the sergeant departed. He read in her face the question that he did not put.

"McClean is going to question Miss Garrow and Amberwood," he explained. "He wasn't quite satisfied with the account they gave of where they were—"

He broke off suddenly. A great light had dawned upon him with startling effect. He did not see that the woman before him had grown pale.

He did not say what was in his mind. Neither did Kay Garrow. Only, as he hurried up the passage, she watched him with fear in her eyes.

"Amberwood!" she repeated softly to herself. "But he couldn't! It's impossible!"

CHAPTER XII
Amberwood Speaks Out

THE three chief actors of the forthcoming scene were already waiting for Marchant's arrival. McClean was looking his blandest. His quick, searching glance at Marchant was doubtless intended to read the result of the interview which had just taken place; but it must have failed, if only because Marchant's own feelings were too chaotic to allow his face to express them. McClean merely nodded, and with an unchanged face resumed the perusal of the papers which had been occupying his attention.

Jessica Garrow and Amberwood sat opposite him. He needed only a glance to see that they were uneasy. Jessica Garrow's face was strained and anxious; the secretary puffed too vigorously at his cigarette. From time to time he glanced nervously from McClean to Marchant.

"Now, we're ready!" The Inspector laid down his papers with the air of a dentist who is just getting down to work. He seemed positively cheerful as he looked at the two worried victims before him. "I expect you're surprised, Miss Garrow, that we wanted you again so soon. And Mr. Amberwood. Well, you see, this isn't by any means so simple as it looks. We're almost certain that Mr. Garrow was murdered. And, in consequence, it becomes important to know where everyone was at the time. We'll take Miss Garrow first. You told us, Miss Garrow, that after tea you went to the snuggery with a book and sat there alone until Mr. Marchant came; that you saw no one and heard nothing to indicate that anything was wrong... I've been thinking over your statement, and I've been wondering if you wouldn't care to amplify it a little?"

"As I was about to say, Miss Garrow, you don't have to answer these questions." McClean ignored the young man. "I am making no charge, but, of course, you will please yourself whether or not you answer."

Jessica Garrow laid a restraining hand on Amberwood's arm. As he seated himself sulkily she moistened her lips nervously.

"What—what is there I can tell you, Inspector?" she asked. "I told you everything—"

"I just wanted to be sure of that," McClean rejoined. "You went to the snuggery and sat there. You saw no one. You were reading a book—how far did you manage to read in that time, Miss Garrow?"

"Would it be true to say that you only reached page two in the hour or two at your disposal?" McClean pursued. "You are a slow reader, Miss Garrow?"

"What are you talking about?" Amberwood interrupted furiously. "See here, Inspector—"

"I'll have questions to ask you soon, Mr. Amberwood," he said mildly. "I'd like you to tell me again whether or not you were in the office all that time; if not, when you were out of it. And maybe you'll explain where you were when witnesses swear that you weren't in the office." He had not raised his voice, but the secretary shrank back. His eyes were fixed upon McClean as he unwillingly seated himself again. McClean turned to the girl again as though he did not exist. "Miss Garrow, as I have said, this is a serious matter," he said sternly. "We know that your father was murdered during the time when you claim to have been sitting in the snuggery. The murderer came that way. There was no other. He, or she, must have passed within a yard or two of you. And, according to your story, you saw no one. But... your father was murdered. I wonder, Miss Garrow, if there has recently been any serious disagreement between you and your father?"

The girl drew a deep breath and stared at him for a moment before she answered. Amberwood had started up again, but at a gesture from her he seated himself.

"Yes," she said finally, "there was. Of course you have heard about it. That is why you ask. I was—I am going to marry Peter. Father did not approve. We quarrelled."

"When?" McClean asked briefly. Marchant wondered whether he already knew what he was hearing, or whether he was learning it for the first time. "Within the last day or two?"

"Yesterday morning." Jessica Garrow answered in a low voice, but she had regained control over herself. "Daddy was very angry. I have never seen him so angry. He said—dreadful things. He said that Peter— No one else knew. We should have told you. But it had nothing to do with this. It hadn't—it hadn't!"

Her voice rose to something very like a scream. Amberwood had abandoned his attempts at intervention. He scowled across the table at Marchant and McClean.

"I'm not saying it had, Miss Garrow," McClean returned equably. "But I understand that you quarrelled with your father, on the day of his death. And you adhere to your statement that you were alone during that time?"

"She wasn't!" Amberwood jumped to his feet and leant forward threateningly across the table. "If you must know, I was with her! I was with her all the time—right up to when she met Marchant. I joined her in the lounge a few minutes later. She couldn't—she couldn't have-—have done what you are suggesting. I was with her. You understand that? I was with her!"

"I understand that you were with her—not in the office, Mr. Amberwood, as, for some reason of your own, you told us previously. So, I am to believe that both of you sat there; that no one saw you, and that you saw no one?"

Amberwood refused to look at her. He sat scowling at the carpet, though she laid a hand on his knee in a last desperate effort to restrain him. Marchant could almost see his slow brain working the problem out. In nine cases out of ten, probably, he would have been like clay in Jessica Garrow's hands; in the tenth he would be immovable. She must have recognised it, for she made no further effort to persuade him, but waited.

"Well, Mr. Amberwood," McClean prompted gently, "you are ready to confirm what Miss Garrow says?"

The secretary eyed him savagely. He still refused to look at the girl. Then he seemed to make up his mind.

"No," he said flatly. "I lied yesterday, Inspector. I didn't go to the office at all. You know that, of course. I went with Miss Garrow to the snuggery—or rather, I came down and found her there. We sat there together, as she's said, talking things over. I lied because I knew you thought there was something wrong, and it looked bad for us. It still does, I suppose." His temper suddenly blazed up. "Oh, I can see what you're getting at! The two of us had the only chance to do the murder. We had a motive and so on. But we didn't know anything about it—"

"Yes." Marchant heard the girl's shuddering gasp. "There was someone, Mrs. Garrow."

"At what time?" McClean put the question as calmly as if it had not the least importance. "Approximately at least."

"I know it had gone the quarter hour," Amberwood answered doggedly. Jessica Garrow was silent now. She sat with averted eyes. "We saw Mrs. Garrow come in from the lounge. She didn't see us. We couldn't actually see her at the door. I suppose she rang the bell. Even from the glimpse I had of her it was plain enough she was upset about something. I suppose Garrow didn't open at once, because I heard her call out. I think it was something like: 'James! James! I must see you! Let me in!' Of course, it was no use calling out. The studio is sound-proof. Mrs. Garrow knew that perfectly well. But I think she must have been so worried that she forgot... We were just sitting there, waiting. We didn't want to be found together. There wasn't a sound for several minutes—nothing one could be sure of. Then she came back. She was running. I thought that she was—that she was afraid of something."

"But you heard no shot?" Marchant asked suddenly. "Surely, if anything had happened—"

"If the door was shut, you wouldn't hear anything. I heard one or two sounds as if someone was moving. She might have been making a little noise on one side of the door or a loud noise on the other. I couldn't tell. We arranged to say nothing. Even we'd agreed that we'd say we hadn't been sitting there. So I told that yarn about being in the office... Jessica was to say she'd sat in the drawing-room."

"Only I proved she hadn't," McClean explained. "You said several minutes, Mr. Amberwood. Would you say that there would have been time while you were sitting there, for Mr. Garrow to have been killed and the door relocked?"

"There would have been time. It didn't take two minutes to go in and shoot him. Four or five minutes for everything. It must have been quite that."

"I heard it click twice. At the time I thought that she was trying it to make sure it was locked. It might not have been. I don't know."

"How was Mrs. Garrow dressed?" Marchant asked. "I mean, had she her hat and coat on? Or just dressed for indoors?"

"Why, I remember now, she had her hat on," Amberwood assented. "Yes, her coat too, I think."

Momentarily, Marchant was surprised at this sudden help from a witness he had expected to remain obdurate. Then he understood. Jessica Garrow believed that he was working solely for the defence of her step-mother. Without knowing of what Kay Garrow had told him, she had sensed that the question was intended to show something favourable.

"In her outdoor clothes? That's interesting." McClean observed non-committally. "And she was agitated? Would you say that she was more agitated when she went out than when she entered?"

"She was hurrying more when she went out," Amberwood admitted reluctantly. "But, understand, I don't know that she ever saw Garrow or went into the studio. My impression at the time was that she hadn't; that she stood there ringing the bell and had given it up. Now—"

"And, while you don't believe that she did, you have to admit that it was possible? Exactly."

McClean seemed to be pondering deeply on some point which had escaped Marchant. The strain of the silence proved too much for the girl.

"Kay didn't! She couldn't!" she broke out. "It's lies—lies! I—I won't say it. Peter—Mr. Amberwood wasn't there. He's saying it to clear me. He was in the office. No one came. I was alone. No one came. No one!"

"There's another point, Mr. Amberwood," he said. "I believe you said something to Superintendent Kirke to the effect that, some time ago, Mr. Garrow had received a threatening letter from some anonymous person?"

"He did!" Amberwood answered eagerly, like a man who sees a sudden hope. "About two months ago. I saw it."

"I think so. Of course, I didn't attach all that much importance to it at the time. It was roughly printed, you know; about a dozen lines, on ordinary paper. There was a sort of signature at the bottom. Crossed keys, or something."

"Didn't notice the postmark. Inside, there was just the usual stuff—you know: 'You shall atone for the wrong which you have done. The vengeance of heaven awaits you. I bide my time.' All that kind of thing. Nothing else."

"How could I tell? That printed stuff takes the character out of writing. It was pretty illiterate, I think—but that might have been deliberate."

"Not to my knowledge. You see, just about that time—about a week later, I think—we had a row. He accused me of overlooking a letter. And, as a matter of fact, I'd been in bed that day and he'd overlooked it himself. He admitted as much later, and it blew over. But he went on opening his own letters."

"I rather think he did. I used to put the letters into a pile for him to deal with. I seem to remember once or twice seeing an envelope with a printed address. He never said anything to me."

"But he did to me!" Jessica Garrow burst out. The colour had come back to her cheeks; her whole face seemed to have brightened. "I remember now. It wasn't anything much—just a sentence or two about the type of mentality which induced people to send anonymous letters. I never thought of it at the time... Mr. McClean—don't you think—don't you think it was that—"

"We'll certainly look into it, Miss Garrow," McClean assented. "There's one other point. Did either of you know that he had written to Mr. Marchant, or what were his grounds for doing so?"

To Marchant's surprise, the question caused a sudden silence to fall. A moment before, in relief at getting off the subject of Kay Garrow's visit to the studio, both had been answering eagerly. Now, neither spoke. A dull red flush mantled on Amberwood's cheeks. Jessica Garrow saw it and, quite clearly, came to the rescue.

"Of course, he wouldn't tell us, Inspector. Daddy never told things like that to anyone. It would be the letters—"

"But he told Mr. Amberwood that Mr. Marchant was coming, I understand?" McClean asked gently.

"When Mr. Marchant came, I believe that it was what you said, Mr. Amberwood, which made him go to the studio?"

"But I didn't know anything definite," Amberwood said hesitantly. "The day before he died he told me that he'd got a man coming on important business at about five o'clock next day."

McClean had noted Marchant's surprise. He waited to see if there were any further questions; but Marchant said nothing more at that time.

"Thank you, Miss Garrow—and you, Mr. Amberwood!" he said suavely. "I think that will be all for the present..."

Two people strangely divided between relief and worry had left the room before the Inspector spoke again.

"Didn't see how to. But it's interesting all the same. I only knew Garrow wanted me when I got his letter that morning. Garrow only knew I was coming when he got my wire at about ten o'clock. But he told Amberwood the day before!"

"Either Amberwood's lying and made that up, or there was someone else—another visitor, whom Garrow may have admitted himself... But there was something of yours I didn't see. Why this interest in anonymous letters so suddenly? Or was that merely a red herring?"

"No." McClean felt in his jacket pocket. What he produced seemed to Marchant at first no more than a folded handkerchief; then the opening folds revealed the half-dozen envelopes which it held. "They're here—or some of them."

"I didn't get them. They weren't hidden. They were a gift from heaven!" McClean grinned. "The obscurity from which our careful search dragged them was no more hidden than the middle of the studio floor. Sergeant Waltham saw them lying there while we were out. He picked them up. That was that."

"But they weren't there—" he began, and stopped as he realised just how idiotic the remark was.

"No. I think we can safely say that they weren't there before. Without flattering the police force, I think one may go so far as to hold a view that five men searching a room wouldn't miss half a dozen envelopes dead in the centre of the carpet—even if they were without the services of a gifted amateur genius who, I think, also overlooked them? No, they weren't there before."

"And why?" McClean added. "Ah, the sergeant's here. We'll just see what answers they give to those points."

CHAPTER XIII
Letters and a Warning

HALF an hour later McClean pushed away the paper upon which he had been scribbling, regarding it ruefully. At the other end of the table, Sergeant Waltham had been busy with the envelopes. He looked up and met his superior's eye.

"Let's see them." Carefully McClean accepted the two envelopes which Waltham held out, holding them by their edges. He studied the three finger-prints which the powder had revealed for a moment before drawing from his pocket an envelope and examining the contents of that. Then he grunted in disgust. "No good. Garrow's. It's no more than I expected. Whoever is behind all this has too much sense to present us with his—or her—signature. Anything else, Sergeant?"

"Common envelopes, sir. Might have been bought anywhere. The paper's the same... We need to be very lucky to trace anyone by that. There seem to be two kinds of ink. And I think at least two or three different pens have been used."

"I agree," he said. "I'd like an expert's opinion on the handwriting... The postmarks are interesting, too."

"Here's the list." Marchant pushed over the paper. "Look at them. August 27th, Plymouth; September 3rd, Truro; September 8th, London W.C.1; September 12th, Birmingham; September 24th, St. Ives; October 22nd, Penzance. There's a definite West Country bias in them, anyhow. And, judging by the dates, it looks as though whoever posted them started round here, went off for a holiday and came back... It's a pity there's such a big gap in the middle. Still, the dates are illuminating in another way."

"Meaning how?" McClean frowned. "As a matter of fact what you say may be what the writer wants us to think. Have you thought of that? There are brains behind this business."

"Unlikely. You see, probably whoever wrote these has some other aim in life—or at least something else to do than bound about the country posting letters in the wrong places. He does his best—"

"We'll come to that later. For the moment, we'll just use the pronoun to mean either."

"Well, he does his best to confuse the trail by going to such places as are within fairly easy reach in an afternoon. You notice they're all afternoon postmarks. And all the places are accessible by 'bus or train."

"Of course. But I think the narrow radius suggests that the writer hadn't a car. Then there's the London one and the Birmingham one. The one in London was posted in the morning; the other was the night post. That difference confirms my view that the man was travelling then. He'd departed from his ordinary habits... Incidentally, in the Birmingham letter, there's a suggestion that the man was writing with an unfamiliar pen. I'd say in a hotel or a post office. But the funniest point of all is the last. Look at those dates again—the local ones."

McClean looked obediently. Sergeant Waltham also craned his neck to look. Neither seemed to derive any enlightenment from the process. McClean shrugged his shoulders.

"Elucidate, my dear Holmes!" he pleaded. "Put an end to my suspense. They're just dates to me. Very nice dates. One is my aunt's birthday. But that's all. And I don't really suspect my aunt."

"Suspect everyone!" Marchant laughed. "But it would be plain enough if you looked at a calendar. As we've said, they're all afternoon postmarks. But there's something else. They're all Thursdays."

McClean's eyebrows rose. Waltham was engaged in a desperate effort to look as though he knew exactly what Marchant meant.

"His—or her—lucky day," McClean suggested. "Or do you deduce something more?"

"The obvious suggestion is that the writer is free on Thursday afternoons to wander about the country posting anonymous letters. Other days he isn't. That is, except during the time he was in Birmingham and London. The dates of those two are closer together. I'd suppose a week's holiday."

"A shop assistant?" McClean asked. "Early closing, and so on... Well, that's possible. Something of that kind... But it might be just habit."

"It might. One can bear it in mind. But that business of examining all the possibilities is all nonsense. One never can. One can only avoid rejecting them—"

"Wisdom simply drips from you to-day, doesn't it? Continue your learned exposition. We are all ears."

"I'd say, as a tentative theory, that the writer of the letters, or the man who posted them, lived somewhere within a ten or twenty mile radius; had had a week's holiday in September; was generally free on Thursday afternoons. So much for the postmarks."

"Now, the contents," he observed. "You've talked long enough. It's my turn... The writer of the letters imagines that he or she has some grudge against Garrow—which, of course, might be mania. Famous men often suffer from that kind of thing—and I hope to heaven it isn't, because of all things I hate most the madman or semi-madman who takes to crime. They're so darn difficult... We'll assume he, or she, is not mad. Something Garrow did years ago is at the back of it; there's that phrase 'Perhaps you have forgotten how you got your start; I have not.' Therefore, the writer was someone who knew Garrow before he became a great man. What the grudge is seems pretty plain. There's that bit about 'ruining my home,' and about Garrow's wife and daughter. It's some kind of a domestic grudge—"

"That's the bit I wanted to talk about. The particularising of wife and daughter suggests to me that the writer was a man. What do you think?"

"Maybe. It doesn't follow. Then, since the man knew Garrow twenty years ago—or woman, I mean—it suggests someone of about Garrow's age. That's what bothers me. We've no one suitable on our list."

"We're going too far," he said. "It might have been a son or daughter of the family Garrow had dealings with. That would be an explanation of why whoever wrote waited twenty years before doing anything."

"Or, of course, he or she might have been abroad... You're getting brighter, Davy. The sea air is doing you good. Or is it something else?" Marchant coloured, and having achieved the desired result, McClean went on. "I think we can assume that that letter dated August 27th was the first. I think it's the one that Amberwood saw, though he didn't quote it quite correctly. In the last one, at least, there's a definite threat to kill Garrow. Most of the others are pretty vague."

"Only, you notice, the threats have been carried out—partially. Garrow's home was certainly pretty well broken up when he died. Mrs. Garrow and Garstane, Jessica Garrow and young Amberwood. Everyone at cross purposes and wondering whether to leave him or not. And, if he was still far from being ruined, his work had been suffering—though that latest painting doesn't suggest it. However, I gather its speed had suffered. So, though the threats sound like melodramatic ravings, they were being carried out."

"That melodrama stuff," McClean began. "I think it's genuine. I believe it's the natural way in which an uneducated man or woman tends to write when he or she wishes to be very solemn... That suggests an uneducated writer... But what I was going to say was that these letters almost certainly explain why Garrow called you down."

"That's fairly certain. And it leads to something else. Was Garrow killed because he sent for me? Did the writer know that he had at last scared his victim into going, if not to the police, to a private detective, and hurry things up accordingly? It almost looks like it."

"Or was he killed because he'd quarrelled with Mrs. Garrow? Or with Amberwood? These letters don't fit in at all. We've got at least three nice motives, concerning four people and this unknown shop-assistant besides... I tell you what, the trouble with this case is that it doesn't give you time to think. I'd just like an hour or two to smoke my pipe and ponder. But I shan't get it. First there was Garrow's murder; then that affair last night; then Garstane, and now these letters appear out of the blue. It's wearying—very wearying. Probably after lunch someone will blow the house up or—"

"You didn't tell me about that properly—I mean, how the letters came to be found."

"Sergeant, forward!" McClean waved his hand. "Tell Mr. Marchant all about it. I'm getting hoarse anyway... Proceed."

Waltham hesitated. "Well, sir, it beats me, and that's a fact," he began slowly. "I wasn't out of the room five minutes, and there they were. At about half past ten the 'phone rang. I don't know where the servants were, but Miss Jessica was answering it when I got into the lounge. It was from the station, to tell Mr. McClean that the bullet fitted the gun and had been fired from it. I went right back to the studio, and there they were, lying in the middle of the floor. I picked them up in my handkerchief. They were scattered a bit. I just looked inside one or two, and it was plain what they were... I wrapped them carefully and put them in my pocket. I was afraid to put them down again. Then I thought how funny it was that they got there, and started to work out how they got there, and who put them. I made a few enquiries, tactfully, sir."

McClean made an odd noise in his throat which might have been hoarseness. Waltham looked at him reproachfully, and his superior had the grace to apologise.

"Well, sir, I knew it couldn't be Miss Jessica. After she left the 'phone I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, go into the drawing-room, and heard her play the piano. I found that Mrs. Garrow had been in her bedroom. One of the maids was sweeping along the passage, and she was sure that she'd not left the room—"

"Alice seems to be an important figure in this case," McClean said gravely. "I'll make a note of her."

"His favourite haunt in time of trouble," McClean murmured. "How do you know? Did he tell you?"

"No, sir. Keyne, the butler, was in Mr. Marchant's room next door, and he heard the typewriter going all the time. Ethel and the cook were in the kitchen. They couldn't have passed me without my seeing them. For that matter, I wonder I didn't see whoever went going along the lounge."

"So that's that!" McClean intervened hastily as Marchant was on the point of speaking. "That's fine, Sergeant. You've done splendidly... If you'd get on with those reports—"

"It was just a miracle, then?" he inquired. "A spiritualist materialisation, or something of that sort?"

McClean grinned. "Waltham's tact has scared the house stiff. If there's no dinner, it'll be because the cook thinks a warrant is waiting for her and it's no use getting on with it... But it's interesting. It must have been someone in the house—or someone who had a way of getting in and out without being seen. Well, these alibis don't clear anyone properly. The maid didn't see Mrs. Garrow. She was merely certain that she didn't leave the room by way of the passage. But Mrs. Garrow is an agile lady with a taste for drainpipes... And Keyne didn't see Amberwood. He heard the typewriter. And Waltham didn't see Jessica Garrow."

"He heard the music—and it might have been the radio," Marchant supplied brilliantly. "For that matter, no one at all saw Alice and Keyne, and Ethel might be in league with the cook."

"To cook an alibi? Exactly. So, theoretically, they might all have done it... Waltham thinks his eyes were fixed on the lounge all the time. They weren't. He gave me a written note which he made of the message at the time. It must have been one of them—and they're all unlikely. I'm half inclined to think that there's really a secret passage into the studio. I've read about them. It's true that in twenty years I've never met one, but one must begin sometime—"

"I'd suggest that it's more likely whoever put the letters came down the stairs leading to the studio anteroom," Marchant suggested, and McClean's wide-eyed innocence convinced him that the same idea had occurred to the Inspector. "And, if the how is so difficult, what about the why? Who was kind enough to help us—and why do it?"

"I've two new grey hairs thinking about that. Up to date, I've just one theory, and that's not up to much. Whoever dropped them knew that the letters were hidden somewhere in the studio, in a place where a detailed search by the police would reveal them. He or she made one attempt last night, but the sergeant was too quick. To-day, he or she had actually got the letters, but the sergeant was coming back. Those we found were dropped in a hurry. There wasn't time to pick them up. Then whoever it was bolted up the stairs, or waited in the snuggery—which I've ascertained the sergeant quite forgot to search!"

"Plausible, but not convincing... By the way, I didn't tell you about Mrs. Garrow—"

"You saw her, then?" McClean attempted an assumption of surprise and failed. "Let's have it."

He listened in silence as Marchant recounted the salient facts of the interview, and his face was grave as he finally delivered judgment.

"If I were you, Davy, I'd chuck working for her. She's a beautiful lady, all right... All the same, I wouldn't let it—well, warp your views about it—no, just a minute! You think that having what she said confirmed by Amberwood and Jessica Garrow cuts her out. Don't you see that she'd heard Jessica was there. She knew the fact would come out, and she told you in advance. She'd guess we thought that she'd been out last night—so she told us about going to get the case. We know all about Garrow's suspicions of her and Garstane, so she tells us a nice sympathetic little tale about it. In fact, I'm hanged if she's told us anything we shouldn't have known anyhow... I'm putting it at the blackest, of course. It may be quite straightforward, and true. But—I'd like you to bear the other possibility in mind."

"It's a funny case," McClean pursued. "I don't know quite if I'm on my head or my heels, but I know this much. Of all the people we've evidence against, there's most against Mrs. Garrow."

"I agree with you. I don't know if I'm on my head or my heels. And you're right that this case is going too fast. We're getting evidence so fast that we can't see what's happening. It's a mistake to lose perspective—I'm going out. For a long walk."

"What?" McClean's amazement was partly genuine. "You, going for a walk? Surely it's not as bad as that? You must be desperate—"

"A long walk," Marchant repeated firmly. "Although my blister hasn't healed... I'll be back to tea."

"Consider your poor feet!" he begged. "I knew a man who died as the result of—"

Marchant slammed the door behind him. McClean had to run after him for his final effort.

CHAPTER XIV
Marchant is Inspired

LIMPING but triumphant, Marchant returned to the house at twenty minutes to three. He had lunched off bread and cheese at a small public-house five miles away: his blister was really painful, and he was wet. But he felt sane again, and the result of his cogitations during his walk had been sufficient to make him cheerful. He was even humming as he met McClean. The Inspector looked tired. He managed to smile sardonically at Marchant's greeting.

"How's the blister?" he asked with false sympathy. "Put a bit of boric lint on it. I knew a man who died—"

"The blister's fine. Do you know, McClean. I'm going to look after the blister as tenderly as—well, as you're keeping that cast of Mrs. Garrow's footprint? That blister, Mac, is evidence. It's the little bit of something extra that you've not got."

"And it'll be fun when you produce it in court," McClean interrupted crudely. "You've got something on your mind. It naturally worries you... Haven't you?"

"I've got three." McClean's brow wrinkled. "Only I don't know which is the right one... You're reticent all of a sudden, aren't you? Just like you young fellows. Picking an old man's brains; then turning proud—"

"It's no good, Mac. I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to work on this myself. And it's your fault if you've not spotted it. You've all the evidence—except the blister."

McClean sniffed. "I smell beer," he complained, "you've been gadding about the countryside, getting ideas out of pint pots in country pubs and generally making whoopee. I suppose it would hardly interest you to hear what I've done?"

"I'd love to." Marchant sank into a chair. "But I'm not sure that it compares with what I've done. That horrible inquest—"

"I didn't want you to strain yourself," McClean grinned. "Of course, we're delighted to have you here, but— As a matter of fact, I've been talking to the Coroner. He's only calling evidence of identification and adjourning. So your own presence, though an ornament to the proceedings—"

"Doesn't matter a curse? I see. I have been trapped. What was it that you found out?"

"Here. Read." McClean extended a sheaf of typescript to him. "D'you know, Waltham, whatever his defects as a detective, is a perfectly good typist? You can read it now. Or you can come in and listen to Mrs. Garrow saying that it really is Mr. Garrow who is a corpse. It's just as you like."

In his newly-found optimism, Marchant nevertheless felt a pang at the thought of Kay Garrow's ordeal. He felt the temptation to be there to help; and yet, though he had already wasted three hours that morning, he knew he could not spare the time. He shook his head.

"I'll read," he said. "By the way, what are these outpourings?... Is Mrs. Garrow legally represented?"

"She is. I'm replying to the most important question first. Those sheets are what you were pining for—the alibis of the various members of the household. I hope that you'll like them."

"Sure I shall." Marchant eyed McClean appraisingly. "But, now I come to think of it, there's something else in your eye. You've another idea yourself—I mean, not Mrs. Garrow?"

"Qui vivra, verra—French!" McClean smiled. "You'll see if you live long enough... Get on with your reading. The Coroner's here."

Lighting a cigarette, Marchant set himself to examine the sheets of typescript which the Inspector had given to him. If the typing was the typing of Sergeant Waltham, the voice was the voice of McClean. He read them slowly and carefully, noting the absence of those dealing with Kay Garrow, Jessica Garrow, and Amberwood. Marchant, apparently, thought that he already knew enough about those. He was not sure that he did.

Parsons, John Albert, chauffeur... No alibi, except his wife. Lives in a cottage away from the house; would probably have been noticed if he had gone in. Divides his time between being gardener and chauffeur. One gathers that both are pretty bad. Wasn't told to meet Marchant at the Station. Is not surprised at this. The first he heard about Marchant was when Keyne told him to collect luggage. Did so. Retired to rest and contemplation. Was aroused by Keyne wanting him to go to the police. Afterwards discovered the exhaust pipes plugged with mud. His wife confirms his statement, and affirms that he did not leave the house except when summoned by Keyne. Looks as if he wouldn't.

Marchant smiled. He was admiring the thoroughness of McClean when once aroused. He himself had never given a thought to the chauffeur. But McClean was right. There was the statement, and he was glad to have it. He could even think of points on which it might be amplified. He turned to the next.

Garstane, Richard Lancelot! Artist, specialising in mediaeval wall-paintings. Cannot speak yet. See Mrs. Garrow's statement. Seen leaving the house by Bill Norris, labourer. Later seen leaving the village, about seven o'clock, by Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Trelawney, James Trelanthen, and others. In hospital. Daft.

The last illuminating syllable amused Marchant. He was sure that McClean, like himself, must be praying for Garstane's return to consciousness and sanity; but they could only wait. The next four sheets concerned the ordinary household staff.

Alice Clarke, maid. Was busy upstairs part of the time; was down by tea time. Tea was served at the usual hour, quarter past four. Was in the kitchen most of the time between then and the time the alarm went. Might have gone out, for a few minutes only—long enough! According to Keyne, Mrs. Campbell (the cook) and Ethel Hayle, the other maid, was in the kitchen all the time, except for a few minutes when she went upstairs, soon after five o'clock. Agitated and incoherent. Probably nerves.

Keyne, John, butler. Was in kitchen or butler's pantry most of the time. Left with the maid, Ethel Hayle, to supervise tea arrangements. Returned with her to kitchen about ten minutes later. Returned to drawing-room after speaking to Alice about arrangements for Marchant; spoke to Mrs. Garrow, returned at once. Returned with maid Ethel to remove tea things, when bell rang. Can swear to the fact that the lights were on in studio at just after a quarter to six, but did not see them go up, being at the time in butler's room. Did not leave kitchen again until Marchant's arrival. Note, after this time, was looking for Mrs. Garrow, secretary, or Jessica Garrow; but death certainly took place much earlier.

Campbell, Mrs. Jane, cook. Was in kitchen and scullery all the time, having tea and getting dinner ready. Fire alarm sounded at critical moment, and dinner ruined. Ran out on lawn when she heard alarm. Saw the lights go up at quarter to six. Note, the deuce of a temper... Annoy her and she'd tell anything.

Ethel Hayle, maid. Was in kitchen except when serving tea. Left with Keyne on Mrs. Garrow's instructions. Returned to kitchen. Saw the lights in the studio. Did not leave again until well after the hour of death, except with Keyne when tea was cleared."

Marchant eyed the folios thoughtfully before turning to the last sheet headed "General Notes." The alibis were as good as he expected: even better. Generally speaking, members of a household cannot account for their movements and substantiate them by witnesses over any prolonged period; and witnesses were apt to be vague on times. The two times everyone seemed to remember were those when tea was served and when the lights went up. They were even lucky to have the second. To the fact that the lights had gone on, even excluding his own testimony, there was even an embarrassing amount of evidence. He was not inclined to suspect the household staff, but noted the few weak points automatically, for further verification if possible. Parsons, theoretically, whose movements were vouched for only by his wife, must be kept in mind: but he had little doubt that McClean had made fairly certain of the truthfulness of the statements. The cook, at least, could be excluded, and unless she was to be supposed to be working in collusion with Keyne, also the maid Ethel Hayle. In the alibi of Alice there was the single gap of her few minutes' absence after five. This, about the supposed hour of death, needed explanation. In her case, and in the case of Keyne, McClean had evidently gone to some further pains than with the others: for Keyne, too, had the few minutes' gap in the time during which he was with other people. Marchant wondered what was meant by "at once" in the statement. He turned to the last page.

General Notes.

Note (1). Kitchen includes kitchen, pantry, scullery and butler's pantry: as all moved from one to the other for various short periods. For practical purposes, all that is necessary is to know when each left the kitchen door, to enter the other part of the house. At no time were any of them missing long enough to leave by back door, make a circle of the house, enter by front and return in time having got to the studio and killed Garrow. Front door not only locked but chained. Windows impracticable.

Note (2). Garrow's household arrangements seem quaint. Generally supervised by Jessica Garrow.

Note (3). In any case the evidence of Jessica Garrow and Amberwood would, if accepted, supply every member of the household with a perfect alibi, except themselves and Mrs. Garrow.

Note (4). The times of these alibis have generally been taken about four o'clock. Even Murray refuses to put death any earlier, and thinks it was later. Marchant, at half-past six, thought death had occurred about an hour before. Murray, about three quarters of an hour later, first said an hour and a half to two hours. The vagueness of his statement is the chief trouble in deciding on possible suspects.

Something had been crossed out at the end of the sheet, but through the lines above it, Marchant managed to decipher the words "Silly old ass." He smiled at the unofficial comment which had managed to penetrate into the report even while he agreed with it. Smoking a cigarette thoughtfully, he considered the various points carefully. So far as he could see, McClean's industry, though it might be useful at a later stage, provided nothing which need alter the line of action which he had decided to take. It led him to the telephone.

As he waited for his trunk call to go through, he was thanking heaven for the omniscience of certain men in London newspaper offices. Unless he had missed his guess, the man to whom he was 'phoning would not long previously have completed the eulogy of James Garrow, R.A., which would accompany the announcement of his death. On the other hand, his friend would certainly be furiously angry that Marchant had not rung him up the previous night in time to get something into the morning's paper. Carew, apart from any unofficial information, would at least have at his disposal the "graveyard" of his paper, and might know enough to tell him what he wanted.

"Yes. It's Marchant. Speaking from Green Gables—Garrow's place. I wanted you to tell me—"

"Garrow's? You there? Look here, you can tell us something. I'll get one of the others on—"

"I'll ring off at once if you go without answering my question. I'm interested in Garrow's early life and rise to fame. But, being buried in Cornwall, I can't find out a thing here... Can you help me at all?"

"Oh, hell!" There was a moment's pause. Then Carew's voice sounded full of resignation. "Born in Northampton in—"

"Wait a minute... 'Had always shown a talent for painting which might raise him to the first-class.' He said that himself, modest violet, so it must be true! 'Hampered by poverty, at one time almost starved.' Doesn't say where, I'm afraid. 'Managed to save sufficient money to begin his studies in Rome and Florence.' Wish I could starve on terms like that, don't you? 'Supported himself by art.' Bunk. There's nothing much else. The year after he came back from Rome, you remember, he got into the academy at once. From then, everything's public property. I'll read it if you like—"

"Spare me your polished phrases. Even though you are proud of your latest creation."

"Latest? My good lad, I started writing this the year he got in the academy. Since then, I've simply been adding to it and pining for his death... Wait a bit. Here's something. 'Speaking at the Bristol Literary Club in January, 1932, he referred to his early acquaintance with the beauties of Bristol, which he did not doubt had exercised a powerful influence upon his after life. Bristol had meant much to him.' ... Humph! Nothing more. Now, see here, Marchant, you've got to tell us! Why's McClean there? It's a straight suicide, isn't it? Then, why the C.I.D.?"

"Look here, Carew, I can't tell you much at the moment. Maybe it's not so straight, though. They're adjourning the inquest... No, I'm hanged if I will just yet... Oh, I just happened to be here."

"Where the carcass is—" Carew quoted aptly. "Look here, you can't put us off... If you do, I'll get them to send a man to Bristol immediately!"

"Then I'll not tell you a word later, when I could... But yes, tell it not in Gath, but you'll be safe enough in hinting at foul play. This is going to make you sit up. Thanks. Good-bye—"

The click of the receiver interrupted Carew's last agonised appeal. Marchant sighed. He could hardly, as a matter of gratitude, have said much less; but in the near future he saw himself, McClean, and the household in general, being pestered by a large number of alert, active men with the capacity for being wherever they were least wanted.

"Rome, Florence, Bristol—" he murmured to himself. "Well, Bristol's the nearest."

The entrance of McClean interrupted his thoughts. The Inspector eyed him dubiously.

"You've a wicked light in your eye," he began. "You'd have been better at the inquest. Keep you out of mischief and so on... How did you like the alibis?"

"I was afraid your trained mind would spot them... You mean Alice? Well, she was just upstairs, buzzing round in the different rooms. Sort of seeing everything was O.K. for when people wanted to tidy up for dinner. That's her statement. There's no reason why it shouldn't be true."

"She wasn't sure—" McClean broke off, grinned and capitulated. "Twelve minutes. Perhaps thirteen. Keyne noticed the times of her entrance and exit. And, as your suspicious nature would assert, time enough."

"Oh, that? I'd better tell you. He left the kitchen at a minute or two after twenty-five past four. He reached the drawing-room at a minute or two before half-past..."

"Mrs. Campbell and Ethel noticed when he went out. Mrs. Garrow is ready to swear that it was just before half past when he left the drawing-room... And she watched him go down the kitchen passage. She'd followed him to the door, meaning to call him back and changed her mind. She saw him go into the kitchen and shut the door. Satisfied?"

"Quite. He couldn't commit a murder in the one minute at his disposal on the most pessimistic estimate. You thought I'd like a little red herring, I suppose?"

The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He moved across towards it, and held the receiver to his ear for a moment.

"Since when have you been in the habit of ringing up newspaper offices?" he asked. "Full story of the crime, eh?"

"No!" Marchant denied. "I wanted information. I didn't give them much—except that they could keep an eye on it. I didn't think that you'd—"

"I'm not a babe in arms. Exchange reports to me all calls from this house. Probably I could find out—" He broke off and smiled. "No, I won't bother... You've done no harm. Droves of the little doves of peace men call reporters have been arriving all day. Wonder they didn't catch you when you went out."

"I'm sorry," Marchant apologised. "But, in gratitude I'll point out a further blot in your notes... You say the evidence of Jessica Garrow and Amberwood gives 'em all an alibi. It doesn't."

"No. They were sitting on the settee. They could see part of the ante-room and the door into the lounge. They couldn't see all the staircase or the studio door. Anyone could have come down, if they kept close to the wall—"

"Now, if the police have no objection, I'm leaving you for a space. A few hours, anyway—"

McClean smiled. As Marchant moved towards the staircase, the Inspector's hand lifted the receiver from the telephone.

CHAPTER XV
Marchant Makes a Discovery

UNDER the impetus of his inspiration, Marchant would have been perfectly ready to make good his parting remark to the Inspector by chartering an aeroplane, but it proved impracticable. By the time a machine could be available and he could reach the landing ground, he would have gained nothing over the train; though as he sped along the fast express seemed to crawl.

What he was going to do on his arrival in Bristol he had worked out only dimly. His task was to find the house where a man he did not know had had his rooms thirty years ago, and unless he had luck he knew that it was a desperate one. The sole chance seemed to lie in the files of the local newspapers for the date upon which Garrow had addressed the Bristol Literary Club, and slim as it was, he had resolved to take it. Without any reason for believing so, he felt that he must somehow succeed. At least the newspaper reporting the meeting was his best hope, but he had worked out several possible lines of attack by the time he reached his destination.

A taxi deposited him at the door of the library, and leaving instructions for it to wait he hurried inside. To disinter the appropriate file took some little time, but then his task was easy. The visit of so famous an artist, with the palatable tribute to civic pride had been well reported. He scanned the column eagerly, but in vain, at least so far as further direct information was concerned. Garrow had said no more than Carew had told him, but he noted down the names of various officials and speakers present. Possibly in conversation the artist had revealed more, but, with the realisation that presidents of societies tend to be aged his heart sank a little. Thirty years was a long time. Even if Garrow had spoken of the whereabouts of his lodgings, it was more than likely the recipients of the information were dead.

But his luck was with him. He was on the very point of closing the file when the heading of a gossip column caught his eye. Under the brief headline "R.A.'s VISIT," a dozen lines of print evidently referred to Barrow's lecture. He read them eagerly.

"Those who, on the grounds of picturesque antiquity, have already opposed the demolition of Aspramont Buildings, may find sentimental arguments to strengthen their case in the revelation by Mr. James Garrow, R.A., at the Literary Club, that it was here he himself lodged during his residence in Bristol as a young man. The suggestion already made, however, that a tablet commemorating the fact should be inserted in the appropriate wall, lacks point if the wall itself is soon to vanish, and even the block's connexion with a famous artist can scarcely be sufficient excuse for the alleged defective sanitation."

There was more which did not concern him. His heart was beating quickly with the excitement of the chase as he restored the file to its keeper, and hurried out to the waiting taxi.

"I'd have to drive you to heaven, sir—or the other place?" he explained. "And I ain't ready to go yet!"

"You mean—?" Marchant's heart sank as he remembered the ominous word "demolition." "They're—they're not pulled down?"

"A couple of years ago, sir. And a good riddance. Proper slum, they was. No, all that's left of 'em was a bit used for making a rockery at—"

"Drive me to where they were!" Marchant ordered desperately. "No—wait a bit. I'm going inside again!"

The driver shrugged his shoulders with the air of one who is humouring a madman, but with a resignation induced by the fact that he was at least to be paid for it. Marchant's belief in his star had suffered a temporary collapse as he returned to the librarian, but sheer determination made him persist.

"Better get me five years each side of it, too, if you don't mind," Marchant pleaded. "I'm sorry. It really is important. A matter of life and death."

"Better broadcast, sir!" the librarian suggested, and Marchant almost wished that the idea had been practicable. "If you're looking for someone, that is."

Marchant was still waiting when the entrance of another seeker after knowledge attracted his attention. It was nothing in the normal, well-built figure and features of the stranger which had made Marchant glance at him a second time, but his obvious interest in Marchant. But, if interested, he seemed also shy of revealing his interest. As their eyes met, the stranger's fell quickly, but a vague familiarity about the appearance of the man made Marchant take what might have been a rash step.

"No," he said at last a little bluntly. "Don't think we've ever met. I was mistaken myself at first—"

"'She thought 'twere I and I thought 'twere she, and when we got near, 'tweren't nary of us!'" Marchant quoted. The man's manner was unconvincing, and he did not believe him for a moment. "Funny we should both have thought—"

Whatever the reason for his haste might be, it was not, apparently, the same as that which had brought him to the reading-room. Without waiting for whatever book he had come in search of, he was hastening from the room almost before the words had left his lips. Marchant was puzzled. Certainly there was something about the man which he felt that he remembered, but, though he prided himself on his memory, he could not place either the stranger or the resemblance.

The arrival of three dusty volumes broke in on his thoughts, and in the eagerness of his quest a momentary impulse to follow the man was forgotten. He turned at once to Aspramont Buildings, and ran his eye down the list of names of those whom those undesirable residences had housed thirty years before. The list was longer than he had hoped. The buildings had housed not less than fifteen tenants, including, apparently, several shops. With a feeling of something very like despair he set himself conscientiously to copy them out.

Garrow's name he had not expected to find; for Garrow, apparently, had been a lodger, and a poor one at that. In all probability he had occupied an attic under the roof, the conventional abiding place of youthful genius. He had had a dim hope that some name in the list might awaken some recollection in connexion with the case, but as he finished with the directory he was still hoping, less optimistically.

He turned to the one five years earlier. There seemed to be a remarkable number of changes; he pictured it as one of those places where the fleeting population ekes out a precarious existence, annually decimated by death, bankruptcy and unemployment. He had copied a name halfway down the list, at No. 8, when the bracketed occupation of the tenant made him jump to his feet.

He had spoken aloud in his excitement, and an elderly woman of scholastic appearance near him was regarding him with inquiring disapproval.

The sudden realisation of what he had found and the time which he was wasting made him break off the apology. His abrupt exit confirmed at least one critic of the younger generation in her faith in the decay of modern manners.

"Drive there now—and hurry!" Marchant ordered. The taxi-driver raised himself patiently in the seat waiting. "To Aspramont Buildings—the site. What?"

He had turned to open the door when a glimpse of a man who was just getting into a second taxi a little way along the kerb made him pause to look back. He was too late. The other was already inside and the door closed on him, but even in the single instant in which he had seen him, Marchant was sure that he had not been mistaken. It was the stranger of the reading-room.

Clearly more than ever convinced that his fare was a lunatic, the driver let in his clutch. Marchant's eyes were fixed on the taxi behind them. As his own began to move, so did the other, and they had not gone a hundred yards before he was sure that, for some mysterious reason, he was being followed. He pondered on the fact without enlightenment, and bewilderment brought with it a mild irritation. If anyone was following him, it could do no harm; but pure cussedness made him inclined to give the pursuer a run for his money. He leaned forward to speak to the driver.

"There's a cab behind, following," he said. "Shake it off before you go to where Aspramont Buildings used to be... I'll double your fare!"

The driver was past speech. He merely nodded assent with something approaching enthusiasm. Almost the next moment they plunged from the broad lighted thoroughfare along which they had been travelling into a dim network of lesser streets in which Marchant himself at least lost his sense of direction completely. Apparently the pursuing car suffered equally, for when, after what seemed an interminable interval, they emerged once more on to a main roadway, there was no sign of it.

"Splendid!" Marchant approved. "Drive there now! Wait a bit—drive quickly until you're getting near, then crawl the last hundred yards and go slowly past a little way."

The driver only nodded again. They changed direction sharply, running back on their tracks, apparently to regain the ground lost during their wanderings. Marchant hardly noticed where they went. His mind was divided between exultation and bewilderment. That, partly by luck and partly by sheer hard work he had made a discovery vital to the solution of the main mystery he did not doubt. But, with the elucidation of one point had come a fresh puzzle. Why had he been followed? Who was the stranger in the library, and what did he want?

The questions were still unanswered when a slackening in the speed of the car warned him that they were approaching their destination. Distrusting his fare's intelligence, the driver half turned to apprise him.

It was a poor part of the town to which they had come, but Marchant was relieved to see that most of it had not suffered the fate of Aspramont Buildings. The houses and shops were quite old; most of them looked well established, and as though they had been in existence for some time. On the actual fence enclosing the brick-strewn desert where his objective had stood he bestowed only a passing glance; but half way along, the sight of an aged man standing in the doorway of a greengrocer's shop made him change his original intention.

The driver's mood had changed from contempt to suspicion, but Marchant's opening of the door broke in on his protest. He followed his fare with suspicious eyes as Marchant accosted the old man.

"Good evening. Excuse me, I'm looking for someone... Someone who used to live across there. Have you lived here long?"

"'Bout twenty years," the ancient answered dubiously. "What might the name, be, sir?"

Even before the other shook his head, Marchant knew that he was doomed to disappointment. If the greengrocer had lived there only twenty years, Hearnes had left over thirty years before.

"Thirty—maybe thirty-five years," Marchant answered. "Then, d'you know anyone who'd be able to tell me?"

"Might try old Loudon—not the young 'un, the old man. Ask for Joseph Loudon. He's retired. The pub just down the road."

Confronting his driver, Marchant hesitated. It might take him some time before he found anyone whose memory extended back thirty years, and this driver was obviously growing restive. He felt for his wallet and looked at the meter.

"Here," he said. "I'm paying you for all up to date, and for ten minutes' waiting. If I'm not back then, you're free. That right?"

"Yessir. Thank you, sir." The munificence of the payment had partly lulled the driver's suspicions. "I'll wait longer, if you like."

Mr. Joseph Loudon, when he was finally disinterred from the parlour behind the bar, proved even older than the greengrocer. Marchant found the fact encouraging. His one fear was that the ex-landlord might be suffering from senile decay, and the vacancy of his look as Marchant put the question enhanced his suspicions.

"Hearnes? Hearnes?" Mr. Loudon repeated vaguely. "Now, I seem to know the name. Kept a paper shop, didn't he, in George Street?"

"No. This one used to be at No. 8 Aspramont Buildings. He'd got a business there—"

"Ah!" the ex-landlord exclaimed. "Now I know who you mean. Ay, I knew him, poor fellow, and his old father before him. A decent young man, he was."

"Thirty—no, thirty-one years ago? After his wife left him. Went broke he did. Seemed to go all to pieces. Didn't see him afterwards."

"You're keen on knowing, mister!" Loudon commented. "No, I don't mind no more. He went away. You'd be a relative?"

"Wondered if I might be. Thought I'd look up an old branch of the family," Marchant thanked heaven for the ready-coined lie. "It's no good then? I wonder where I could find out."

"Don't know, sir." The old man was growing restive. "You might ask the police—"

Hastily consuming a glass of vile port which he did not want, Marchant took his leave. His luck seemed still to be holding, for though he must almost have passed his time limit the taxi still stood beneath the lamp where he had left it. He had not many yards to go when in the gaslight he saw a man hurry up, apparently from behind the taxi, and give a brief direction to the patient taxi-man. Even as Marchant quickened his pace, the short argument was concluded. The driver seemed to assent; the stranger opened the door, and as he entered Marchant had a glimpse of his face. He started forward with an exclamation; but too late. The taxi was already turning to cross the road. On the kerb, Marchant glanced up and down hopelessly. There was not another car in sight. A decrepit tradesman's van on the opposite side of the street for a moment filled him with a hope, but as he began to cross it moved off. He was left standing there, with a feeling of baffled annoyance. For the man who had driven off was Amberwood.

CHAPTER XVI
The Letters

THIRTY minutes after Marchant had driven off to the station, McClean's ambition to sit with his pipe and ponder for an hour or two almost looked like being realised. Unlike Marchant, he was no believer in inspiration, at least in his own case. His experience had been that the official detective, backed by the official machine, more often succeeded as the result of an infinite amount of routine investigation than by brilliant speculations or theories. But, at the rate evidence was accumulating against a variety of people, he felt the need of a breathing space in which he could mentally tabulate and arrange what he had already got.

To that end, he had had his tea sent to the morning-room, where it shared the table with the bloodstained pastel of the woman's head, the anonymous letters, various odds and ends, and the latest addition to his collection which he was studying as he sipped his tea. The examination of the bulk of Garrow's private Papers would necessarily be deferred until they contrived to open the safe, and in any event, the presence of Garrow's lawyer was desirable. But the letter he was reading had, with artistic carelessness, been pushed under the palette in the studio, and as he studied it, he wondered how long it had been there.

Manifestly Garrow had had some trouble with his bank. More in sorrow than in anger, the manager wrote to repudiate a suggestion by Garrow that a cheque for £50 had wrongly been debited against him. The artist had evidently been extremely rude; the banker was painfully polite, and, so far as appeared, justice was on his side.

"I must repeat," the letter read, "that the cheque was undoubtedly genuine; that it was made payable to bearer, and presented, with a covering letter written by yourself, by your own secretary, Mr. Amberwood, as on previous occasions..."

He had got so far when he turned with a sigh as the door latch clicked. He had a feeling of some further crisis impending which would again deprive him of a respite. To his surprise, it was Mrs. Garrow who entered. She advanced straight into the room, only realising his presence when she was almost beside him.

"Oh!" Her startled exclamation was no more than would naturally be provoked by unexpectedly finding someone in a room one had thought empty. She smiled, "I'm sorry, Inspector, I'd no idea anyone was here. It takes time to get used to the presence of the police—one might almost say the omnipresence!"

McClean rose politely. At that moment he had not been thinking of Mrs. Garrow as a possible murderess; he found her presence vaguely embarrassing.

"Sorry we trouble you so much, Mrs. Garrow," he apologised. "We're cutting things as short as we can—"

"Meaning that my arrest is imminent?" Kay Garrow asked calmly. "Surely you've plenty of evidence, Mr. McClean?"

McClean had no intention of being drawn. It was unusual perhaps, but not unprecedented, that a criminal should defy him to arrest him or her.

"We have discovered certain facts relative to your husband's death pointing in a variety of directions, Mrs. Garrow," he said with remarkable caution. "I would point out that I have made no suggestion of any charge up to—"

"I know your evidence." There was a hint of desperation in her voice. "I'd quarrelled with my husband. People say I was in love with Mr. Garstane. It was my gun. I went to the studio about the time it must have happened. I can't account for my time. And the various other points. Surely that's enough? Mr. Marchant must have told you—"

"Mr. Marchant certainly told me of your interview with him," McClean admitted. He hesitated. Since giving his warning to Marchant, he had found his own views changing, "And, on the whole, Mrs. Garrow, I am inclined to believe what you told him... No doubt that sounds rude. It's not meant to be."

"Then—then—you don't think—?" Kay Garrow's assumption of bravado crumpled suddenly. She swayed a little, caught at a chair and sat down weakly. McClean felt for a moment the disadvantage of his profession. Clearly she had been under unendurable strain, guilty or innocent. That she might be either troubled him. All at once she looked up in fierce suspicion. "You—you're not telling me the truth!" she accused. "You're trying to trap me—to—"

"Mrs. Garrow," McClean spoke gently and patiently, and his tone carried conviction, "discussion of this kind can do no good. We are simply trying to find out who killed your husband. You can help or hinder us. Up to date, if you are innocent, can you deny that you have hindered us? If you are not your husband's— If you are not guilty, surely you must see that your duty lies in helping us find who is?"

Kay Garrow was silent. Her eyes were fixed upon his face, and she was breathing convulsively.

"There are two points on which you could help us at this moment, Mrs. Garrow," McClean pursued. "None of them concern yourself, so far as I can tell... I have no scruples in asking you these questions. First, did your husband at any time mention to you that he was receiving threatening letters? In, say, the past two months?"

"I'm afraid, Inspector, you hardly understand how things had been between us," she said in a low voice. "Lately, if anyone had tried to kill him, I should have been the last person he would have told. He said nothing to me, or in my hearing."

McClean bowed his head in assent; then, after a moment's hesitation, he picked up the pastel drawing.

"This was found in the studio," he explained. "It was the last thing that your husband did... I believe that it may have some bearing on the case. It is only partly completed, but I want you to look at it carefully. Do you recognise the subject of it?"

With a tremor she evidently noticed the dark stain showing even through the thick paper; but, conquering her horror, she looked at it steadily, for almost half a minute. A slight frown creased her brow.

"I—I don't know," she admitted at last. "I'm almost sure I've never seen the woman. And yet—somehow the face is familiar."

"The queer thing is, you've said exactly what I feel myself!" he explained. "That is the real puzzle, if only you thought that, we might suppose it was someone you had seen at some comparatively distant time since your marriage to Mr. Garrow. But I couldn't have an accidental contact of that kind. You see my difficulty. Almost certainly it must be someone I have met here. But I know it isn't."

"It may be imagination," Kay Garrow eyed the drawing speculatively. "My husband was at least a great artist. I don't know if you've noticed, but some painters have a way of making persons so real that you almost feel you've met them before?"

McClean nodded, still unconvinced. He hesitated again before he picked up the letter which he had been reading when she entered, and held it out to her.

"I said two points, Mrs. Garrow, but there are three," he said. "This letter—have you seen it before? Can you tell me to what it refers?"

"It isn't true!" she had only glanced at it when all at once the impartial calm with which she had been answering him vanished. "It couldn't be! If you knew him, you wouldn't even ask. Why, Peter Amberwood couldn't be a thief if—"

"You must see, Mrs. Garrow, that you have either said too much or too little," he said after a pause. "If any such accusation was levelled against Mr. Amberwood by your husband, it will certainly be possible to find out about it. Even from his point of view, it would probably be better for you to tell me."

"It was not true!" Kay Garrow repeated; then hesitated for a moment before continuing; "Mr. McClean, I do know what the letter refers to. The matter cropped up some days ago—perhaps a fortnight. My husband accused Amberwood of stealing that money. Afterwards he retracted the accusation, reluctantly. I never entirely understood it. It seems as though, after making out the cheque and letter, my husband had completely forgotten about the money. It was not like him. I think—"

"It sounds awful to say so but—I think that my husband invented it. He had seen that Amberwood and Jessica were getting fond of each other. They were ideally suited, but he opposed it bitterly. I believe he was trying to cast doubts on Amberwood in Jessica's mind. He didn't substantiate the accusation because it was really absurd."

McClean knit his brows. What Mrs. Garrow said might be true; from what he had heard, Garrow had been capable of it. But, even so, with however great excuse, Amberwood must have been angry with the man who had played the trick.

"No." She hesitated. "That was one thing my husband threw up against him; it seemed to hurt him more than anything. He came to us from Oxford. But, friendly as we have been, he has never mentioned his home or his parents. I think he must have been—unhappy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Garrow." McClean's tone gave her her dismissal. He was not at that time disposed to push his luck much further. And he wanted time to think. "I don't think that there's anything more—"

"I don't expect you see, Mr. McClean," she said in a low voice. "I don't expect you can see what this house has been. The three of us, Jessica, Amberwood and myself—yes, even Garstane, have been simply driven together. My husband absolutely isolated himself. Only Jessica had any kind of confidences with him. It has been terrible—"

She broke off, as though she had been going to say more and had thought better of it; stood for a moment with her hand on the handle; then went out.

"Lord save us from artists!" McClean murmured bitterly as the door closed. "A nice house he seems to have had—a happy English home!"

Relighting the pipe which he had allowed to go out in the stress of the past few minutes, he drew towards him the scribbling pad on which he liked to record the skeleton of his thoughts. What Mrs. Garrow had told him about the letter could somehow be verified; but that could wait. He began to write.

"Probables: Mrs. Garrow, Garstane, Amberwood, Jessica Garrow, and some person unknown, outside the house who wrote the anonymous letters.

He eyed the list, but it gave him no satisfaction. The chief suspects remained as before; and Alice and Parsons were remotely improbables. Only the maid, the butler, and the cook seemed exempt, because of the utter absence of opportunity. He decided to take things a step further.

"Mrs. Garrow. The case against her gets less and less convincing. Everything depends on whether Garstane regains consciousness, and what he says. The gun seems to have been lying about, sometimes locked up, sometimes not. Her reason for killing Garrow holds good; so does her opportunity. But her general conduct is against it. She can have no possible connexion with the letters; which have even harmed her in some degree. It seems less probable that in fact she possessed the combination of the safe where the keys lay. Her story accounts for her actions, and is unshaken.

"Garstane may still be guilty. Mrs. Garrow left him in time for him to come back to the house, and he was certainly in a murderous or suicidal mood. His difficulty is one of entrance. No one admitted him to the house. Amberwood and Jessica did not see him. It is hard to see how he could have a key, or to link him with the letters.

"Amberwood. Suspicion against him grows steadily. He has two motives at least; his love for Garrow's daughter, and the (?) false accusation against him. He was the only person who knew about the letters at all. He might have written them, intending to suggest an outside murderer. He is generally free in afternoons. On the other hand, he might have been in association with the writer; the mystery of his parentage and youth are in favour of this. From the beginning he has lied; possibly through guilt; possibly to shield Jessica Garrow or Mrs. Garrow, or both. He must have had opportunities for getting the key, even if he did not know the combination of the safe. Evidence against him strengthens steadily.

"Jessica Garrow. Can scarcely be more than an infatuated accomplice. She alone seems to have been on comparatively good terms with Garrow. She has a motive, since she wanted to marry Amberwood; she might have got the key, and had the opportunity to use it. She, too, has been lying. Query, to save Amberwood, whom she knows to be guilty?

"The unknown outsider. The chief objection is access to the house and room, knowledge of Garrow's habits, opportunity to get the gun. Also, practically, though not theoretically, he must have been in league with Amberwood. Marchant's suggestion about the stairs is a theoretical possibility only.

"Note. The case presents several aspects which may or may not be connected. (1) The supposed affair between Mrs. Garrow and Garstane; (2) the admitted desire to marry of Amberwood and Jessica; (3) Garrow's accusation against Amberwood; (4) the anonymous letters. Quite possibly, one or more of these has no connexion with the murder; improbably, none have; ideally, all lead up to it. One has also to consider the cutting of the telephone, and disabling of the cars. It seems certain that Amberwood and Jessica Garrow could not have done these.

"The ideal murderer wrote the letters, had some connexion with the Garstane-Garrow affair, and that of Amberwood and Jessica, influenced or was influenced by Garrow's accusation; cut the telephone, put the cars out of action, and switched the lights—"

The door burst open. A very excited Sergeant Waltham broke into incoherent speech as soon as he saw McClean.

"Sir, he's gone! Bolted! It must have been him—Mr. Amberwood. Climbed out somehow."

"Gone where?" McClean's heart sank, but he kept his head. "How did you find out?"

"The Bristol police rang us. They said Mr. Marchant had seen him there, and tipped them off. They'd tried to head him off. They think he caught the London train—"

"I'll speak to them." McClean gathered his notes and exhibits together hurriedly; and gave a glance at his unfinished tea. "Oh, hell!" he murmured. "Darn all artists!"

CHAPTER XVII
Amberwood's Name

HEAVY-EYED with lack of sleep, and absolutely tired out, McClean was inclined to be self-reproachful when at last he welcomed Marchant later that night.

"If he gets away, I'm to blame," he said gloomily. "I ought to have put a man on to watch him. But one couldn't detach a detective to trail each member of the household. I'd a man in the house and one at the gate. Amberwood didn't leave that way."

"Looks bad for Amberwood," Marchant commented. "Why should he creep out of the house like that if he'd any legitimate business? And, as a matter of fact, his very presence where I saw him was pretty damning. It's impossible to think that it was co-incidence—and I'm sure that he didn't follow me. But I'd better explain—"

"Why you went to Bristol?" McClean gave a tired smile. "Oh, I know that! It's the one thing I do know. You'd got the idea which had also occurred to me that after all the letters might be responsible; and that things started with something which happened in Garrow's early life. I suppose the newspaper man put you on to Bristol. You looked up the files, found that Garrow had lodged at Aspramont Buildings, looked it up in the directory and drove there in a taxi to find that the place had been pulled down. That's right, isn't it?"

"But—!" Marchant began. "Mac, you amaze me. It can't be thought reading or clairvoyance... Why, you had me trailed!"

"Certainly," McClean assented without turning a hair. "I rang the station to find where you'd booked to, then rang the Bristol police. They picked you up—"

"Then—the man in the library? He was just a local cop! And not even a very good one. He let me get away just at the moment when he and his taxi might have been useful..."

"Not entirely. As you say, that local sleuth wasn't too good—otherwise he'd have noticed I wasn't consulting the current directory. I know where Garrow lodged. He used to live at Number Eight, Aspramont Buildings, at the house of a tradesman called L. J. Hearnes. Hearnes' business was broken up after his wife had run away from him—just about the time Garrow must have stayed there. Hearnes was killed in the war."

McClean had been listening with some astonishment. He leaned forward and patted Marchant on the back.

"Bless me if it doesn't sound as if you've been doing a little honest-to-God police work!" he approved. "There's hope for you yet, my boy. It's interesting, isn't it. Looks as though that's the motive behind the letters... But you say that Hearnes was killed in the war... Any children?"

"None. After I'd lost Amberwood, I made a few more inquiries. There were no children. But Mrs. Hearnes used to take in lodgers. I couldn't hear anything positive about Garrow. You might make some more inquiries. It's surprising what long memories people sometimes have in the poorer parts of big towns."

"And Amberwood went there!" McClean murmured softly. "He knew about it somehow. And he went there. And now he's gone."

"They've a description of a man like him getting into the Paddington train. But though they 'phoned through at once to watch all stations, no one seems to have seen him getting off. It was pretty crowded, as luck would have it, and it's not hard to miss a man whom you've never seen. Besides, he's such an ordinary young man in appearance."

"If he were getting away, he'd naturally make for London... But you'll catch him?"

McClean shrugged. "All depends how much of a fool he is," he answered. "And then—?"

"I don't know," Marchant admitted. "I wouldn't say that you've evidence enough to charge him with murder. But it's growing against him. First of all we had motive, possible opportunity and access to the weapon against him—"

"You mean Jessica Garrow was with him in it?" McClean looked doubtful. "I'm hardly inclined to agree."

"Not, perhaps, as an accessory before the fact. She seems to have been quite fond of her father. But she might have lied to shield him afterwards, believing him to be innocent."

"There's Mrs. Garrow, too. He certainly seems to have seen her. It supports his statement."

McClean considered for a moment or two. Then he nodded with an air of vast wisdom.

"I think that I get you, my dear Marchant," he said. "How's this for a possible sequence of events? We know Garrow had something mysterious in his past about which some person unknown was writing him letters. Amberwood's past also seems to have been mysterious. I rang up his college at Oxford, and they could tell me surprisingly little about his antecedents. He came from a private tutor. He was an orphan, they believed. And you found him in Bristol at Aspramont Buildings. Well then, we can argue this. Somehow he was connected with Hearnes, and knew of what happened there. He wrote the anonymous letters, or was associated with the writer. He killed Garrow, or helped. He'd just finished, and had locked the door again when Jessica Garrow joined him. It showed a nerve to sit down in the alcove, but he must have done it. They actually saw Mrs. Garrow. When they heard of the murder, he persuaded Jessica that Kay Garrow had done it. They agreed to lie for mutual self-protection or to save Mrs. Garrow."

"The cars? The telephone? The midnight visitor? And why should Amberwood pop off to Bristol?"

"Answering the last question first, my view is that he'd not been to Aspramont Buildings for a long time. He's been in communication with the writer of the letters—if he didn't write them himself, and still thought that he lived there... Or alternatively, having accomplished the deed of vengeance, he made a pilgrimage to the scene of the original wrong before running away... As for the cars, the third person, if any, might have done it. Or, on making inquiries, I find that he was alone with Jessica Garrow until the cook came to take a hand. It's just possible that he might have done it then."

"We're theorising. I thought you didn't believe in it... While we're on it, I'll offer you two more. The first is an emendation of your own account. Jessica Garrow wasn't there at all. She came from upstairs, perhaps to get the book she'd left in the alcove, and that was how she came to enter through that door. The whole story was Amberwood's. He cooked up a tale of having been sitting there and seeing Mrs. Garrow. She lied for the sake of her stepmother."

"Not half so convincing as the other," McClean decided. "She didn't get the book. And it's more likely she'd lie for Amberwood... And the next, please?"

"Jessica Garrow is the villain; Amberwood the tool. We know nothing about the first Mrs. Garrow, except that she was a woman of humble birth who died some years ago. It might be worth inquiring. Suppose she was the woman Garrow ran away with—I know I'm jumping a step, but with him it's a safe assumption he ran away with some woman. Suppose, say, at her mother's death, she heard what had happened and began to hate her father. Probably he didn't treat the first wife well. His marriage with Kay Garrow, and the way he treated her might have been the last straw. She starts writing the anonymous letters. She kills Garrow, and uses Amberwood's feelings for her to make him give her an alibi. She gives as an excuse that she saw Mrs. Garrow go in... But she doesn't really want to get Kay Garrow into trouble. So she gives her an alibi. Seeing that we're still suspicious she does something else. She produces a selection of the anonymous letters which she took when she did the murder."

"The explanation that they were dropped in a hurry never satisfied me. I suggest that they were planted there. She had tried to do it the night before, and Waltham nearly caught her. She was a long time coming when Amberwood sent for her... To-day she might have turned on the radio—I know I said it as a joke, but it's possible—and slipped past the sergeant while he was writing. The letters were put there for a purpose—to clear Mrs. Garrow. She's the one person we know of up to date who simply can't have any connexion with Garrow's buried past. So, a selection, a non-committal selection which won't give much away, of the letters is put there as a way of helping her out."

"You're making her out a pretty cold-blooded fiend, aren't you? And an actress!"

"She is that. Except when she's overstrained, her face doesn't tell you a thing."

"You don't believe that," he said decisively. "Besides, there's one thing that you're forgetting. The light. That went on after Mrs. Garrow went to the studio. She said so at least. But Mrs. Garrow could get no reply, according to her story."

"I'm not forgetting that. And, if we assume that Garrow was dead, and not merely busy or feeling cussed, it's possible that the murderer was actually inside the room. He turned on the lights afterwards, because, if they hadn't been on, it might have been noticed. You see, everyone, in fact, did notice their being turned on. The murderer couldn't leave the place in darkness."

"Or he might have come back to do it," McClean said dubiously. "I examined the lights, by the way. I had an electrician go all over the wiring. It's not been tampered with. The lights could only have been switched on from inside the studio."

Marchant nodded approval. "I wondered about that," he said. "Then there's the key... well, Jessica Garrow was in charge of the household. She was certainly more in her father's confidence than anyone else. She might have known the safe combination just as much as Garrow's wife or secretary. More probably, perhaps. By the way, I suppose the keys are in the safe?"

"Yes. Had the man down to open it to-day. We wanted access to the papers, anyway. I'd expected Garrow's lawyer down to-night. He's not turned up yet. Don't expect that he will now."

"No. But how could there be? It's clear the person responsible had sense enough to wear gloves. They could have been used."

Something in Marchant's voice made McClean look up quickly. The other met his gaze smilingly.

"Davy, you're holding out on me!" McClean reproached. "You might spare an old man worn out with sorrow and toil—"

"You've all the evidence, my dear Inspector—or at least the police have. No doubt the cops duly inspected the files and the directory, even as I did."

"Yes." McClean assented: then a thought seemed to strike him. "But it didn't lead them to the house where Garrow lodged. Only to Aspramont Buildings. How did you get number eight? You say yourself that you can't find anyone who remembers that Garrow lodged there."

"My theory. And, I might tell you, that, if the safe keys were used, it's probably wrong. Moreover, Garrow may have lodged at Number 13 or Number 4. But it all holds water so far. It's a new theory. I got it in Bristol."

"Sixpence—at Woolworths?" McClean answered nastily. "And you won't tell me? Well, well!"

"You had me followed!" Marchant pointed out. "I'll tell you—when I'm a bit more sure."

"You couldn't be—more cocksure, anyhow. There's satisfaction oozing from every pore. It's disgusting. First of all that stuff about your blister: then this!"

"I thought you'd have forgotten the blister. But I've no objection now to explaining that. It gets one no further, except to show—"

"A gentleman to see you, sir," the butler announced. "Mr. Norris, sir. I think you said you were expecting him."

"Norris!" McClean jumped to his feet, ignoring the immaculate oblong of pasteboard on the tray. "Show him in at once... He's late."

"Yes, sir. I understand that he travelled by car, as the trains were unsuitable. There was a breakdown, sir."

"Show him in," McClean repeated. He turned to Marchant as the butler retired. "That's the lawyer. Or rather, he's an old friend of Garrow's—comparatively old—whom he consulted on legal matters sometimes. He's retired."

The very entrance of Norris seemed to add tone to the comparatively sordid proceedings of the inquiry. There are lawyers and lawyers, and Marchant instantly classified Norris in the correct type. He had clearly spent his life in the dignity of an office remote from law-courts at most times: poles apart from the baser paths of criminal practice. In all probability, in all his sixty years' experience, he had never come into contact with violent crime. His face was gentle and sympathetic, with a suggestion of an underlying precision and reliability about the mouth. McClean advanced to meet him.

"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Norris," he greeted. "I'm afraid you had a bad time coming down?"

"A serious breakdown," Norris agreed. "It has delayed me considerably... I trust that it has caused you no inconvenience?"

"I dined on the way. It was the one convenient feature of the mishap, Inspector, that it happened within reach of a passable hotel. I even welcomed the break. But I am sure you must be in a hurry to get to business. A very sad affair Mr.— Inspector McClean. I had known him for years. Since we were young men—if one is young at thirty-five? It was very unexpected."

"Very," McClean agreed. In the presence of Norris he felt vaguely uneasy, as though he was on the verge of committing a piece of bad taste in alluding to the murder. "Oh, I'm sorry. This is Mr. Marchant. He was here when the body was discovered. He's helping me in my investigations."

Marchant accepted the hand which was offered with the feeling that he had just received a benediction.

"It is a terrible tragedy," he managed to say. "Worse even than we had supposed, Mr. Norris. The results of our preliminary inquiries have been most disquieting."

Momentarily McClean was behind Norris's back. His wink to Marchant was a tribute to the other's use of the final adjective. Marchant bit his lip to repress a smile.

"Disquieting?" Norris's eyebrows rose. "I understood from the Inspector that Mr. Garrow had shot himself. That, of course—"

He broke off. Marchant felt that he had been going to say that Garrow, with all his faults, was not the kind of man to commit such an error of judgment as to be murdered.

"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it, Mr. Norris," Marchant assured him. "Mr. Garrow was certainly murdered. By whom is what we are trying to discover. We hoped that you might be able to give us some assistance."

"That I might?" Norris sounded almost pained. "Really, Mr. Marchant, I have very little experience in this kind of case. Of course, I shall be delighted to give any assistance that may be in my power, but—"

"We understood that you acted for him in legal matters: that you helped Mr. Garrow draw up his will—"

"I am afraid that you have been misinformed. It is five years since I retired from practice. The latest will in existence—so far as I am aware—was drawn up soon after his marriage with Mrs. Garrow—his second marriage."

"How long after?" McClean broke in a little impatiently. "Oh, sorry! Won't you sit down, Mr. Norris... You must understand, we have to investigate all possible factors in a crime of this sort. I had been told that you advised Mr. Garrow on legal matters. You can, however, tell us about the will?"

"Mr. Garrow did me the honour to ask me to be his executor. I pointed out to him that, since I was actually older than he was, it would have been better if he had appointed a younger man or woman; or at least appointed two executors. But he persisted."

"When was the will drawn up?" McClean asked again. "The last of which you have any knowledge?"

"If it is material to your enquiry"—Norris hesitated—"I suppose that it is my duty to give you the information. His last will was drawn up two years ago."

"I believe, several... Previously, in fact, he had made a will immediately following his marriage to Mrs. Garrow."

"Really, Mr.—Mr. McClean, I am afraid that I can hardly say that. Mr. Garrow informed me that he was appointing me executor under his new will, as in the previous one."

"I am not sure that I should say... Yes, he told me. The bulk of his property was divided between Mrs. Garrow and his daughter by his first marriage, Jessica. There were bequests of an unimportant nature, and one which struck me as unusual, a comparatively large sum left to Peter Hearnes, known under the name of Peter Amberwood—"

"That is correct. The sum, I believe, amounted to five thousand pounds, or rather, the income from it."

McClean sat in something very like a daze. It was Marchant who put the question.

"You don't know if that provision was contained in the present will? Or where that will may be?"

"I do not, Mr. Marchant." There was a trace of coldness in Norris's voice. "No doubt his solicitors or his bankers—"

McClean's hand went to his breast pocket. The eyes of the other two men were riveted on the long envelope in his hand.

"I believe this is it," he announced. "It was in the safe... if you are the sole executor, Mr. Norris— Although its contents may be of importance, I was reluctant to open it until you came."

Norris inclined his head in appreciation of the Inspector's correct attitude. Taking the proffered envelope, he broke the seal.

CHAPTER XVIII
The Will

WITH less faith than most people in the idea that men are normally murdered by their heirs, Marchant had scarcely thought about the will. It was only when Norris's explanation of the legacies provided the dramatic link between Amberwood and Hearnes that his interest was aroused. Both he and McClean watched the face of the solicitor eagerly as he glanced through it.

Manifestly Norris was surprised; even shocked. It was evident that his professional composure was disturbed by the provisions of Garrow's second will. Marchant saw his eyebrows rise slightly; his mouth set in a disapproving line. This will, it seemed, was less to his taste than that which Garrow had signed previously.

The solicitor made no attempt to read the will out. He read it through once; turned to the beginning again and glanced at its provisions a second time. Then he cleared his throat.

"I must say," he said with a trace of what might have been annoyance in his voice, "that your question whether this will differs from that which Mr. Garrow previously executed, Inspector, was only too well justified. It differs to such an extent that, had I known of its provisions, I should have thought twice before I consented to act as executor. I have always held the strongest views regarding the obligations of married life—"

"Excuse me," McClean interrupted impatiently. "Perhaps it would lead to a better understanding, Mr. Norris, if you were to tell us what the main provisions of the will are?"

"I was about to do so. This will, Inspector, has not been drawn up by Mr. Garrow's legal representatives... He may, or may not, have consulted them regarding its legality. That, however, is a point about which you may learn more from them. Certainly nothing he has said to me led me to believe that he intended any such disposition of his estate. What his reasons may have been, I do not know... Briefly, this will leaves the whole of his property, excepting certain bequests, to his daughter, Jessica Garrow, the money to be held in trust for her by three trustees, of whom I am one—"

"That was the point to which I referred. The whole, with certain exceptions, is left to Miss Garrow. One of the exceptions concerns Mrs. Garrow. 'To my wife, Catherine Garrow, I leave the income of one thousand pounds, to be administered by the above-mentioned trustees, conditional on her not having become separated from me at the time of my death, and to cease in the event of her re-marriage or death, when the income shall revert to my daughter, Jessica Garrow. I make this provision in the belief that it is a full and fair recompense for the help and service which she has rendered to me during our married life.' The language, of course, is Mr. Garrow's own, and, in my view, the second sentence is improper in such a document. The intention, however, is sufficiently clear."

"It certainly is!" Marchant said grimly. "Garrow obviously wanted to humiliate his wife as much as possible."

"That is not for me to judge. Since I have consented to act as executor, I am concerned merely with seeing that the provisions of the will are carried out. Speaking in confidence, I may say that I do not approve of this provision. But, according to the law, it is still possible for a man to leave his money as he pleases. In this country, at least, though obliged to maintain his wife during life, a man is perfectly entitled to make her a pauper at his death... One may or may not approve of it, but it remains the law."

"I think it's damnable!" Marchant said abruptly. "And Garrow must have been a rotter—"

"De mortuis—Mr. Marchant," Norris reproved. "One should never judge rashly in matrimonial cases. It is impossible to understand the circumstances—"

"The bequest to Amberwood-Hearnes?" McClean asked. "That, too, has been abolished?"

"No. That remains. To Peter Hearnes, known as Peter Amberwood, my secretary, the income from five thousand pounds, the capital to be administered by the above trustees, with the proviso that he shall resume the name of Hearnes, which properly belongs to him as the lawful son of Mr. L. J. Hearnes, formerly of Aspramont Buildings, Bristol—"

"That settles it—" Conscious of Norris's disapproval he broke off. "Are there any further bequests, Mr. Norris?"

"For the most part, minor bequests to servants only. To all servants in his employ at the time of his death the sum of fifty pounds each, if they shall have been in his service for a period not less than two years—I believe that most of the staff fulfils that condition?"

"Yes," Marchant assented. "All, I think... You said for the most part, Mr. Norris?"

"There is one final—er—eccentricity," Norris admitted. "The amount of the bequest is not large; the phrasing is regrettable. 'To Richard Garstane, whose efforts to resurrect the fatuities of extinct ecclesiastical cartoonists have afforded me some entertainment, the sum of one guinea, that he may by means of it purchase the means for a painless exit from this world.' If Mr. Garrow intended to make the payment of this bequest conditional on Mr. Garstane's committing suicide, this clause, I think, could be ruled out."

"It may be ruled out anyway," McClean said grimly. "That's just what Garstane tried to do this morning. He may not live."

"Mr. Garrow seems to have anticipated the natural course of events," Norris said dryly. "That, I think, is all that is material. I cannot sufficiently express my aversion to the way in which the will has been drawn up."

"It might be possible to criticise its wording in certain clauses. But, speaking without proper consideration, I doubt if any attempt to upset it and revert to any former will would succeed. The aim of the law, in such cases, is to see that any proper bequests of the deceased are carried out as he seems to have intended them. It might, of course be fought on the grounds of undue influence or insanity. Since it was made two years ago, since Mr. Garrow has, to all appearances, been living the life of a successful artist, I am afraid that any such attempt would be hopeless."

"Except for the bequests to servants," Marchant intervened, "I believe all the provisions are concerned with income only?"

"Yes, Mr. Marchant. The survivors of the three original trustees are empowered to co-opt further members as a vacancy occurs. Miss Garrow is to enjoy only the income from the estate, with the house and furniture."

Norris frowned again. Clearly the ultimate disposition of Garrow's fortune was another point on which he thought that the artist had behaved unbecomingly.

"It is clearly stated," he admitted. "'On the death of my daughter, Jessica Garrow, it is my desire that the money derived from the whole of my estate, real and personal, to which she has succeeded, shall be held in trust by the Farmers' Society, or by such trustees as they may appoint, for the purpose of establishing upon the land promising young artists, such assistance not to be given unless they consent to abandon completely any indulgence in so-called aesthetic pursuits. To this sum shall be added the capital of which the income has been bequeathed to the above-named Catherine Garrow and Peter Amberwood or Hearnes, at such time as they shall die.' Here again, the phraseology is bad, and might, indeed, lead to litigation. But that is not likely to concern us immediately. That, I think, is all."

"Enough, I should think!" In spite of his anger against Garrow, Marchant smiled at the last provision made for a fortune derived from the sale of paintings. "And you believe that the will can be upheld?"

"The bulk of its provisions leave little room for any successful attempt to combat it. The last, I admit, is more open to question... The will, I confess, Mr. Marchant, surprises me. If I may say so, it shows the folly of not taking expert advice in the drawing up of one's will. Had Mr. Garrow consulted a solicitor, not only would his intentions have been carried out, but the vindictive and objectionable portions might well have been omitted."

"That's probably why he didn't," McClean observed. "He wanted to have the last word when he was dead; wanted to create a scandal. It's curious how people do. And, he'll certainly succeed, if the will is proved. Of course, you will submit it to probate?"

"I have no option. I might refuse to act; but having consented during Mr. Garrow's lifetime, I should not feel justified in doing so. Regrettable as the changes appear to me, I doubt if they afford evidence of insanity—"

"Merely of a nasty sense of humour," Marchant broke in. "There may be some little difficulty in the Payment of certain of the legacies, Mr. Norris. For a beginning, I may say that Mr. Amberwood has run away. Further, that all the chief recipients are in varying degrees suspected of murdering him. I speak, of course, in confidence. We have no definite evidence as to which, if any, may be guilty. This fact explains our interest in the will. We hoped that it might give some clue to the solution of Mr. Garrow's death."

"I appreciate your confidence, Mr. Marchant," Norris said a little stiffly. "At the same time, I would warn you against the expression of such views to an outside person—"

"What Mr. Marchant meant, Mr. Norris," McClean intervened, "is this: at the moment, all the evidence points to the murderer being a member of the household. We were particularly anxious to see you with a view to discovering if you yourself had any knowledge of any person or persons who had motives for killing him. You were, I think, on friendly terms with Mr. Garrow for some years. Did he, for example, ever mention to you that he had been the recipient of threatening letters?"

"He did not. The whole affair is incredible to me. I cannot conceive, moreover, that any of the members of the household whom I have met—"

"That is our difficulty... Regarding the bequest to Peter Amberwood. Did Mr. Garrow at any time inform you concerning his reasons for making it?"

"Mr. Amberwood is, I believe, his secretary. I had supposed that it was in recognition of his services, though, I confess, it seems to err on the side of generosity... Nevertheless, Mr. Garrow was a remarkably wealthy man. The income derived from the sale of his paintings in recent years was considerable; and he had been unusually fortunate in his—investments."

"You have no right, Mr. Marchant, to put words into my mouth. A few years ago Mr. Garrow was certainly inclined to make investments which I myself should not have approved. They succeeded. He invested the proceeds in unexceptional securities."

"But this gets us no further," McClean said with a trace of irritation. "It's all very well, but it doesn't tell us who killed him... So far as I can see, assuming that the murderer was aware of the provisions of this will, the only persons who materially benefit are the daughter and the secretary. Mrs. Garrow's legacy is almost negligible, in view of the fact that she has an independent income. But the will reveals animosity against Mrs. Garrow and Mr. Garstane which may have been reciprocated. I don't see that we can go much further than that. One can't think that he was murdered by the Farmers' Society, or a young artist who was anxious to grow potatoes thirty or forty years hence."

"You forget the bequests to servants, Mr. McClean," Norris pointed out. "Murder, I believe, before now had been committed for sums of less than fifty pounds. One generally finds, I should have said, that it is not the amount of money which matters, but what the acquisition of it means to the murderer."

Marchant looked at the solicitor with a new respect, and the other evidently noted his surprise.

"Not that I have had any personal experience of criminal cases, Mr. Marchant," he added hastily. "But one must have one's relaxations."

"It's a very illuminating remark, though," Marchant answered. "Values alter according to circumstances and the disposition of the people concerned."

"If you're not too tired, Mr. Norris," he suggested, "I think it would be as well if you could begin an examination of Mr. Garrow's papers. So far they are untouched, except for those which were in the studio, and the will, which I temporarily took charge of. There may be something in them—"

"I shall be pleased to do so. No detailed examination, I imagine, is possible to-night. But, as you say, they can afford some hint—"

Marchant shook his head as he caught McClean's eye. He had no special wish to be present while they were wading through a mass of documents which had, in all probability, no reference to the murder. If they were to discover any further letters, or perhaps, other papers of importance, McClean would tell him. He settled himself more comfortably in the chair as they went out.

He had not relied much upon the will. It had proved, indeed, more interesting than he had expected. Garrow had known about Hearnes; the connexion was proved. And the very proof added to the reasons for suspecting Amberwood. That this should be so was unpalatable to him. The evidence was piling up against the secretary just as it had piled up against Mrs. Garrow. Even McClean now seemed to reject the idea that Kay Garrow had murdered her husband, though no doubt he still kept it in mind. Marchant, largely on instinct, was inclined to reject the case against Amberwood; though he had been largely instrumental in creating it.

But, on any other assumption than that he was guilty, the secretary's conduct seemed to be inexplicable. The will, and his discoveries in Bristol, gave a new motive, perhaps a more powerful motive. A combination of love and revenge might well urge a man to violent action; but not, Marchant thought, this man to this action. He could have understood it if Amberwood had killed Garrow; but not in this cold-blooded, deliberate way which only accident had prevented from being accepted as suicide.

His thoughts broke off as the door opened. He rose to his feet hastily as Kay Garrow entered.

"Am I interrupting?" She tried to smile, but Marchant was struck by the impression which the last day or two had left upon her face. The acute pallor did not diminish her beauty; but it made her seem more elusive than inscrutable; the dark rings beneath them seemed only to emphasise the brightness of her eyes. "But, you'll understand, I'm interested... Is my fate decided yet, Mr. Marchant?"

"No," Marchant answered seriously. "I don't want to raise any false hopes. But things are looking better. Recently, one or two indications seem to point to—well, to someone else."

Kay Garrow stood looking at him. Marchant felt uncomfortably that she knew what he was thinking. Her next words almost confirmed the impression.

"To Mr. Amberwood?" she said in a low voice. "I was afraid of that... But it isn't, Mr. Marchant. I'm sure it can't be!"

"Since you've guessed, I'll admit it is so. And it looks bad for him. You know that he's run away."

"He's left the house. I don't believe he's trying to escape, though I suppose that it's what you'd naturally think. Or he may be frightened even if he's innocent. You know, Mr. Marchant, the police—and unofficial detectives—can be very frightening."

Marchant did not answer at once. There was a little jealous feeling in his heart at her championship of Amberwood; more, strangely enough, than he had felt about Garstane, perhaps because the secretary was more of a man.

"I don't mind saying that I could almost hope it was he," he said bluntly. "You see, Mrs. Garrow, it was almost certainly someone in the house. If it's not Amberwood it must be you or Jessica Garwood... Even Garstane can be ruled out, unless one assumes an accomplice. And there's nothing to show that he could have any accomplice except you. For various reasons, even if that was something I could believe, it wouldn't fit."

"Someone in the house?" Kay Garrow repeated softly. "But there are more than three of us in the house, Mr. Marchant. Have you thought of the servants? Have you thought of—of—"

"I ought not to say it... But if it means saving them I must. Have you thought of the maid, Alice?"

CHAPTER XIX
A New Suspect

IN utter amazement, Marchant stared at her for what struck him suddenly as being an unduly long interval. He was thinking of what McClean had said jokingly; of the short gap in her alibi; of the very fact that he had not previously given her any consideration.

Under her pallor, Kay Garrow coloured. The blood came to her cheeks in a rich, red flood. Her eyes met Marchant's for a moment and dropped.

"I—can't—— It's hard to explain. Don't you see that any woman might have a motive—any attractive woman—so far as my husband was concerned? That was how it always was, even since I married him... Probably the accusation is unjust. I just don't know. Only, it has struck me that lately he was looking at her—not as a servant."

In Marchant's mind, a variety of thoughts were rising in embarrassing confusion. Mere habit as a detective made him sceptical. Kay Garrow might be telling the truth; or she might be influenced by her desire to find someone outside the family circle with a motive for the crime; or she might even be concealing some kind of guilty understanding between herself and the secretary. The thoughts rose in his mind automatically; though every impulse told him to dismiss them. He could not reply.

"Women understand these things, Mr. Marchant," Kay Garrow continued. "Women nearly always know when other women are—are attracted. Or when men are trying to attract them. My husband didn't generally have to try. At the first glimpse, he simply did attract a lot of women. Even me." She laughed bitterly. "It seems a sad fact in this world that a lot of the most attractive men are the ones least worth marrying."

"You say this," he said. "What have you got to go on? You see, things may be clear to you. But I need evidence. I need to know, by some positive indication, that a thing is so. What can you tell me?"

"Evidence?" Kay Garrow laughed again, but there was no mirth in it. "Why, Mr. Marchant—what would you accept as evidence? How can I explain? A shade of expression, a trace of confusion where there should be none... Only, I'm asking you to bear in mind that if you want a member of the household, there are the servants. After all, they know as much about the running of the house as we do. More, perhaps. Because they are servants, because they play such a subordinate part, I mean, because they know so much about us—"

"But it wouldn't furnish a motive for murder?" Marchant said, a little stupidly. "If—if she was fond of your husband—"

Kay Garrow laughed again, and this time there was no bitterness in it. Marchant derived no consolation from the fact; for he knew that, lifted for the moment out of the pressure of circumstances, she was laughing at him, quite genuinely and unreservedly, as at an innocent who has said something ridiculous.

"Mr. Marchant," she said, "hasn't your experience told you yet that where there is love there may always be hate? That the two can alternate so easily—so easily that a word, a fleeting expression can change one to the other? No woman would doubt—or only the very stodgiest, plainest woman—that, if Alice loved my husband she had a motive for murdering him!"

"I—I don't understand," Marchant admitted a little wearily. "After all we are reasonable people—"

"After all, we aren't!" Kay Garrow leaned forward. "We try to think we are. We work things out to suit our little philosophies. Being mercifully blind, we tell ourselves we are doing it. But what really matters? Love, hate—or the complement of either, revenge; desire, the will to live—" She broke off. Her whole attitude changed. She smiled. "I'm talking stupidly, Mr. Marchant," she said in a different voice. "I merely meant to suggest that all people are human beings—even servants. And that servants are members of the household."

"And you've done it." Marchant spoke hesitantly; then burst out into impatient eloquence. "All people are human beings—even amateur detectives. What do you think made me take this case up? What do you think made me tell you to undress and come along to the sergeant? Why do I go on lying—and hoping for the best—"

The mere impassivity of her expression made him stop. He looked at her for a moment. What he saw in her face he did not know, but he was moved to an apology.

"But you're not!" she interrupted, and again her cheeks flamed. "When I married—my husband, I knew nothing of men. I had certain ideals. Men had, I think, to be attractive—successful—clever. I didn't realise essentials at all. And the essential is—could you live with them? Oh!" she exclaimed with something like violence. "With men it doesn't matter so much. They've got so much besides. With women it does. If we had the sense, we'd always play safe."

"And do you?" Marchant said, despite his better judgment. "And would you be doing if—"

"No!" Kay Garrow smiled again, and this time there was no bitterness in it. It was inscrutable, and yet there seemed to be tenderness in it. "How could I? How should I? We are not reasonable beings, Mr. Marchant. We go where we have to. Only, in time, one may learn at least—if it's a decent risk!"

Marchant passed his hand across his brow. He was tired, desperately tired. For that reason, he was reluctant to say what was in his mind. He had always trembled at the thought of being emotional. Now that he was being, he resisted it. What he might have said was unsaid. Suddenly the door opened. Sergeant Waltham stood in the opening.

"They've got him, sir!" he broke out, "Nabbed him at the station. He was coming back, seemingly, sir. Funny, isn't it?"

"Who?" The sergeant was pained. "Why, sir, who should it be but Mr. Amblewood? You gave us the tip yourself, sir, that he'd gone to Bristol—"

Marchant rose to his feet slowly. He did not look at Kay Garrow. In his mind the evidence against Amberwood was too strong. It would have made it almost hypocrisy to meet her eyes.

"Lord, no, sir!" Waltham answered in a bewilderment which made him momentarily forget the respect with which he had been treating Marchant. "Why, how could he be, sir? He couldn't get back in time... Inspector McClean would like to speak to you as soon as you can manage, sir."

Marchant did not miss the sergeant's curious look from him to Kay Garrow. On the other hand, he did not greatly care about it. He turned to her as the door closed.

"You are right, I expect," he said. "I mean, that we ought to have paid more attention to the servants... And you're right about other things too. I feel I ought to have known them. But the fact is, one can't—abandon one's mind to them. I mean, a theory is so attractive that it binds one to facts. And, you know, I think we make our own theories, according to what we are capable of living up to. I'll remember both of them. And later—" He broke off, simply looking at her. "Later, perhaps— Now, I must go and see the Inspector."

"You must remember, Mr. Marchant, that only occasionally does one say what one thinks to be the truth. What does the hymn say? 'Not always on the mount may we wrapped in the heavenly vision be.' Life is too much for us, most times. Life, and the people we like, and the things we want to do... Only, be fair to Peter Amberwood."

Marchant did not answer. He only looked back at her as the door closed behind him.

In the library, he found McClean. But McClean was looking the reverse of triumphant. His hands were caressing the sides of his head irritably: he seemed more tired than ever. Marchant sat down opposite to him without speaking. He waited. He waited for almost a minute: then lit a cigarette. At last McClean spoke.

"I suppose the sergeant told you," he said. "They've got Amberwood." He stopped again. Marchant noticed his tired eyes, and his private belief was that the best piece of detective work that McClean could do would be to go to bed. McClean spoke again, after a considerable pause. Desperately, like a man who sees no sense in what he says. "They've got him. And he was coming back. Curse it, he'd booked his ticket when they got him! He ought to have been bolting for some hide-out, booking a passage on a cross-channel steamer, engaging a room at a private hotel in Bloomsbury. But, as a matter of fact, he was coming back."

"Mac," Marchant said with the calm of a man who, in the face of difficulties was temporarily master of his own fate, "you're tired. It's horribly late. You hardly slept at all last night—I didn't much, either. You'd better go to bed. Give me the bare outlines. Then we'll close down and call it a day."

"Well, they got him," McClean answered after a pause. "He just came up to the booking office at Paddington, paid for his ticket as if he was a tourist on a week-end trip, and was moving for the train when they nabbed him... they had to. They found his ticket. He was coming back here—"

"How did they get him?" Marchant prompted. "Had you men been watching all the stations?"

"No," McClean said heavily. "We were watching him. We'd missed him altogether at the London end. Then, late on, a 'phone call came through from—where do you think?"

"I'm only occasionally a clairvoyant!" Marchant smiled. "This is one of my off days. Where?"

"Bell's detective service. Apparently he rolled up there late at night, when they'd ordinarily have been closed down. He was asking about some investigation that Garrow had had undertaken some years before. But the man who saw him had read the report of Garrow's death, and had seen Amberwood's name. Amberwood's manner was so queer that he decided to take no risks. He told Amberwood to wait for a minute, and rang up Scotland Yard. They were following him when he left the building—of course, they'd told him nothing. Only said that they'd have to look up their books. And Amberwood went straight from there to Paddington, and booked straight back here."

"Well, you've got him," Marchant observed, more for the sake of saying something than anything else. "We wanted to know where he was."

"What the devil's the good of that?" McClean snapped. "I thought he was bolting. We'd a grand little case against him—if he'd bolted. We'd have seen Miss Garrow. If he was guilty, she was almost bound to give something away. But he wasn't bolting. He just had a little trip to Bristol and London, and came back... Oh, I'm not saying that he hasn't a lot to explain. He has. But, mark my words, he'll explain it. And I'll have to believe it. That's the trouble with this case. Here are any number of people doing the most idiotic things which make them look guilty, and then explaining them away. And, I believe them! I must be losing my grip."

"Maybe we haven't struck the right person yet. And, anyway, you'll see what Amberwood says when he comes back... What case was that about which he was asking the detective agency?"

"I asked them that. I've so much sense left, anyway. It seems that, some years ago, Garrow asked them to undertake an investigation into the parentage of an orphan at an institution in Bristol. They did so. They discovered—well, what do you think?"

"It was Amberwood. Garrow knew about it, but Amberwood evidently didn't. Only he knew that there had been an investigation. They didn't tell him by the way, what they had found out... But, you see, Amberwood must have known a little, because he went to Bristol. You found him there, pondering on the site of Aspramont buildings."

"Or, to be more exact, pinching my taxi? Yes. But, as I say, Amberwood may prove to be innocent, and it won't really worry us. We're getting more and more facts. We've a clearer idea of what happened than we had before. And, when we've got a little further, we may either find someone else we've not suspected at all, or else get back to one of those we suspected before."

"Meaning Mrs. Garrow?" In spite of his weariness, there was a glint of mischief in McClean's eye. "You think that, after all—"

"No!" Marchant denied. "I honestly think we've found out the truth there. I think that, when Garstane comes round, he'll bear out her story perfectly... Oh, I know that you're thinking I'm letting my judgment be influenced by—"

"Now, did I say so?" McClean asked reasonably. "Have I pressed the case against Mrs. Garrow? Have I tried to scare her, or, perhaps, done anything that I ought to have done? You know I haven't. And the reason is that, in my heart of hearts, I don't think she did it, in spite of all there is against her."

"I don't myself," Marchant answered. "But I thought you'd say I was prejudiced."

"The trouble is, I feel just the same about Amberwood!" McClean burst out. "In a way, our case against him is better than that against Mrs. Garrow; I mean, it explains the anonymous letters, or can be made to. But I don't believe it."

"Well then, I've a new suspect entirely," Marchant answered. "We've rather left the servants out of things... I have reason to believe that there was—well, some kind of relation between Garrow and—"

"And the maid Alice," Marchant finished. "There may be nothing in it. But I think there is. If there were, it would explain one fact which puzzled me..."

In spite of his reverence for Marchant and the Inspector, Waltham was frankly appalled.

"Get her up. Get her!" McClean insisted. "I don't care if I'm accused of third degree or anything. Get her."

CHAPTER XX
Alice Explains

MARCHANT said nothing, but his expression must have said what was in his mind. McClean shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a high-handed proceeding, I know," he admitted. "I may very well get into trouble over it. But I'm past caring. It's about time someone told the truth in this house. If I scare her, she may."

"I think that she'd have waited until to-morrow," Marchant admitted. "After all, we've very little to go upon... But there are two points which she might clear up."

"Did she do it, though?" McClean asked wearily. "Will she give us any evidence to prove who did it? Don't you see, though we're adding to our list of suspects, we aren't abolishing any? On the face of it, it's just as possible that Mrs. Garrow did it as ever; it's more possible that Amberwood did. Even your little fairy tale about Jessica Garrow needn't be complete nonsense. The one man whom we seem to be eliminating is Garstane. I'll be glad when he can talk."

"If he does talk," Marchant added. "But it seems to me that there's one thing we are doing. We're gradually eliminating that outside writer of the letter, or at least showing that he had an accomplice in the house. And, Mac, that is the vital point of this case. Taking everything together, it must have been someone inside. I said that my blister was evidence. So it was. For the fact that I had to walk from the station was the first curious thing which happened to me. Garrow had said that he would have me met. Did he really forget, in view of the fact that he must have been more or less scared by those letters to send for me at all? Or, did he give the order for the car, and was it somehow intercepted?"

"Assuming that Garrow did order the car, he might have done it in various ways. He might have spoken to Parsons personally. Parsons says that he didn't. He might have told Keyne or one of the maids to tell Parsons. They say he didn't. He might very well have told Amberwood—and Amberwood denies it too. Or he might have told Jessica Garrow to see that it was done. Anyway, it wasn't done."

"But, if it was deliberate, why not?" McClean scowled at the table. "What difference would it have made if—"

"Time," Marchant said briefly. "I ought to have been at the house by about a quarter to five. I actually got here at something like six. Whenever I arrived, it was possible that the murder would be discovered. So, since there was no way of stopping my arrival, I was delayed an hour... You see, the same principle of delaying investigation accounts for the wrecking of the cars and telephone. Whoever killed Garrow didn't want it known exactly when he was killed—and the later he was discovered the less accurately the time of his death could be placed. Murray's idiotic caution, of course, was a piece of luck for him, or her. It's bothered us a lot."

"Again that gives you the entire household staff to deal with!" McClean objected. "And, principally at the moment I'm interested in eliminating a few."

"Let's see what happened. I arrived here. Keyne knew that I was coming—had expected me earlier—had received no orders to take me to Garrow. Jessica Garrow had heard nothing about me; she wasn't surprised that Garrow had forgotten about the car; she couldn't let me into the studio. Amberwood—it's a point in his favour—knew that someone was coming who was to be taken straight to the studio. He took us there. That seems to show that he wasn't specially interested in delaying the discovery. But when we actually got to the door, it was Jessica Garrow who suggested the fire alarm, and, finally, insisted on having the door broken down."

"Which leaves us almost as before," McClean groaned. "You're forgetting Parsons, the maids, the cook and Mrs. Garrow."

"I don't just see Garrow telling his wife to see that a car was ordered for me. He might, but she seems to have had very little to do with the running of the house. He'd hardly tell the cook, and besides, the cook and Ethel are among the people who really seem unsuspicious. Garstane couldn't have any hand in this part. Parsons—well, he could have received the order and not gone; though, in case Garrow had told anyone else, it would have been more artistic to stage a breakdown. He could have disabled the cars and cut the wire. But it's hard to see how he could have done the rest."

"Besides, I believe his wife," McClean sighed. "She's the one person in this business I do believe. It wasn't Parsons."

In the brief space since the sergeant had called her, Alice, if she had been asleep, had contrived to achieve a surprising degree of neatness. It might have been hurry that had put the flush in her face; or it might have been temper. Looking at her coldly, Marchant's suspicions that there was something in Kay Garrow's view was strengthened. She was, in fact, an attractive enough girl, and of a type which might easily have fallen a victim to Garrow's fascinations.

"Sit down!" McClean ordered briefly. He turned to the sergeant. "Mrs. Garrow still up?" he asked.

"Get her." Only as the sergeant departed he turned again to the maid. "Now, Alice—"

"Miss Hayle to you!" She had not accepted the invitation to be seated. She was standing truculently where she had stopped when the sergeant first brought her in. "If I am in service, I've a right to decent treatment from a—a policeman. And I don't know what you mean by dragging me out of my bed—I'll see my lawyer about it. You'll get into trouble over this."

McClean made no attempt to interrupt. He was simply looking at her. It was the return of the sergeant with Kay Garrow which made her break off and look round.

"Sit down, please, Mrs. Garrow," McClean requested. "I'm sorry to trouble you. But, in cases where midnight interviews of this kind are necessary, it's as well to have another woman present. You've no objection?"

Kay Garrow only shook her head as she seated herself obediently. After her first outburst, the maid had lapsed into an uneasy silence, looking nervously from one to the other. McClean deliberately delayed speaking to her.

"Sit down," he repeated, and this time she obeyed. "I'm sorry that it's been necessary to call you like this. But it's your own fault. If people insist on hindering the police in a murder investigation, they are asking for trouble—and may get it more seriously than merely being called in the middle of the night."

"But I haven't—I didn't—I've done everything—told you everything you asked."

"The truth?" Alice had suddenly paled. "But—but I don't know what you mean. I don't know anything about—about it." She raised her head in a sudden bravado. "And you can't treat me like this—as if I was a criminal. My lawyer—"

McClean paused significantly, waiting for a retort which did not come. "It's an offence, you know, to lie to the police. In a case like this it may be a serious offence. I'm asking for the truth."

The girl did not even protest. Marchant felt a moment's compunction. As McClean had said, he was being high-handed, and he was doing it fairly thoroughly.

"Now, Miss Hayle." On the Inspector's lips, the concession to dignity even sounded ominous. It seemed to give unusual solemnity to the proceedings. "You told us, I think, that you left the kitchen for a short time about five o'clock; that you went upstairs and saw to the preparation of the rooms. That is what you said, isn't it?"

"You say that you went upstairs to see to the rooms. If Mr. Keyne says that this should have been done earlier, he's lying, I suppose?"

"But I think that you had," McClean said gently. "I can get witnesses to prove that nothing had been done in certain of the rooms. I'd like to know where you really went... I'm not accusing you of murder. If I have to, you'll be warned and properly charged. But I want the truth. Where did you go? You saw Mr. Garrow?"

"No! No! I didn't!" Alice was looking at him with startled eyes. "I never saw him. He didn't—"

"But, you tried?" he said. "We know that Mr. Garrow was—interested in you." Inspiration came to him. Perhaps it was the sight of her pale face and big eyes under the lamp. "He was going to paint you, wasn't he?"

"How—how did you know?" Alice asked in amazement. McClean was scarcely less surprised at the success of a brilliant guess. She raised her head defiantly. "Yes, he was. He said that he'd make the famous picture of the year out of me—better than—better than—"

She broke off Kay Garrow's face might have been carved out of stone, but Marchant knew that she had guessed the end of the sentence. Under the circumstances, he could not spare her.

"Yes. I wanted to be painted. He'd even done a few sketches, he said. He was going to show them to me... There was nothing wrong. Only he didn't want—her to know. He said it would be misunderstood."

"Probably," Marchant agreed. "But you'd been to see him once or twice, hadn't you? In the studio? You went in through the garden door?"

Marchant's gentleness had managed to scare her even more than the Inspector's bullying. She was staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

McClean was obviously trying to conceal his own surprise. For a space he had been content to listen. Now he suddenly put a question.

"No—no! He didn't!" Marchant sighed in the fear that McClean had undone all the good work which he had started. "I—I used to go to the door and ring. There's a bell on that door too..."

"That's what you did on the day he was killed?" Marchant asked. He saw the terror in her face, and hurried on, fearful of another denial. "As a matter of fact, we know that you couldn't have got in that way, unless he let you in. And then you couldn't have got out and bolted the door after you. You see, we're not trying to say that you murdered him. Only, I noticed that the bolts had been oiled on a door which was supposed never to have been used. It seemed suspicious at the time. Now you've explained it... Suppose you tell us what really happened that afternoon?"

"I—I would have told you before," she said at last. "But I was frightened. And I thought that she—" She stopped with a glance at Kay Garrow. "Yes. He'd made a few sketches of me. He'd promised to show me what the picture would be like. That was two days before. Ordinarily, I should have been free part of that afternoon. I was going then, just for a minute or two. But you came unexpectedly. We were busy, and I couldn't go. Then I thought there was a chance later on. I said I was going upstairs. And I really did... You see, I'd no business going to the studio. People might have wondered—"

"I couldn't that night. What would the others have thought if I'd decided to go out into the garden in the rain? So I went upstairs and along the passage, meaning to go down the other staircase and try the main door of the studio. I couldn't do that, either. When I got to the top of the stairs, I heard someone talking in the little place at the bottom."

"It was—it was Miss Jessica and Mr. Amberwood. They were talking rather loudly. I couldn't make out what they said. I think they were quarrelling."

"No. But the window at the top of the stairs was open. It's not far to the ground there. I wanted to see the sketch. I don't know what made me do it, but I got out. I ran along to the door, and rang the bell."

"He—he didn't answer. And I thought that perhaps he had someone in there with him, and he'd know that it was me at the door and didn't want to let me in. I only rang once, because I thought that he'd be angry. I waited a minute or two, but he didn't come. So I started to hurry back. Then I saw—"

"Mr.—Mr. Garstane. They were a long way off—right at the top of the garden. He was—I thought he was trying to persuade her about something. I couldn't stop to look. I had to get back. But it was much harder getting up again. I tore my skirt, and when I got in, cook noticed that I was wet. I had to say I'd splashed myself in the bathroom. She didn't say anything more."

Marchant nodded. That in itself would be confirmation of a kind, if the cook remembered the incident; but he did not for a moment doubt that they were hearing the simple truth. What the girl had said fitted in to a surprising extent with what they had heard from other people. One last point occurred to him.

"But—last night?" McClean asked. "You went to the studio then? To get the sketches?"

"No! No, I didn't!" Her denial was hysterical. "I wouldn't have dared... I only woke up when the noise came. Ethel and I went down together... I've not done—anything—anything wrong. And now—and now everyone knows, and I'll have to leave, and I'll get a bad ref-reference!"

She buried her face in her hands, sobbing with inelegant abandon. Marchant looked at McClean, who bowed his head in assent.

"It's all right, Alice," Marchant comforted her. "As you say, you've not done anything wrong... And now that you've told us the truth, don't you feel better? You've thought it was hanging over you—that we'd find out. It's all right now. And I'm sure Mrs. Garrow—"

"If you've finished, Inspector, I think she'd better go to bed," she suggested. "Alice, as Mr. Marchant says, it's all right. I don't blame you at all. You'd better come with me."

Momentarily Marchant trembled for the success of the well-meant attempt. There was an instant's flash of jealous anger in the girl's face; then she accepted Kay Garrow's arm. Still sobbing, she left the room, and the door closed behind them.

"Right, Sergeant." McClean dismissed Waltham. "That's all... The constable's on duty, isn't he?"

"Yes," McClean answered as the sergeant disappeared. "I've a feeling that our visitor last night didn't get whatever he or she came for. There might be a second attempt... Now, what did you make of that?"

"Very helpful. The most helpful thing that's happened so far. I believe the girl, don't you?"

"Actually, I do. And though the fact of her trying to get into the studio might theoretically add her to the list, I don't think it does... She confirms the statement by Amberwood and Jessica Garrow—at least that they were there just after five. And she confirms the evidence of Mrs. Garrow about her meeting with Garstane. It explains the oiled bolts—I didn't think that you'd noticed them specially. And, it might explain—other things—I mean, an attempt by Garrow to get rid of his wife. Or his wife's consenting to meet Garstane."

"Just after five," Marchant elucidated, "Alice rings the bell at the garden door of the studio. Garrow doesn't answer. At about half-past five, Mrs. Garrow rings the other bell—twice or three times. Garrow doesn't answer. Then, later, Keyne, Amberwood, Miss Garrow and I ring the bell. Garrow still doesn't answer. He was dead when we got in. Wasn't he dead when Alice rang?"

"But—but the light at quarter to six?" he suggested. "Who switched that on? How?"

Marchant yawned. "I don't know," he admitted. "But things are clearing up... I'm going to bed. We'll deal with the mysterious light to-morrow."

CHAPTER XXI
The Lady of the Portrait

THERE is a grisly hour of the morning in a strange house, before any of the normal inhabitants are ordinarily astir, at which only the very brave, very cranky, or very foolish guest dares to descend. Marchant, awaking at a remarkably early hour, was actually dressing by seven. When he left the room a little later, he met Keyne on the stairs, and the butler's disapproving astonishment would have been greater had he known that Marchant usually rose in the neighbourhood of ten.

Alice, to whom he had been prepared to give a cordial good morning, scuttled bashfully away as he approached. The house was in the throes of the early morning clean-up, and standing in the lounge, he looked round dubiously for a moment before taking his way to the very heart of the proceedings, the kitchen. Yet, merely as the centre of operations, it proved to be almost deserted, held only a skeleton staff in the form of Mrs. Campbell, if such a term could be applied to so portly a figure.

Marchant had gathered that Mrs. Campbell struck terror into the hearts of the household. He remembered McClean's note on her temper. But he had had a way with cooks since, as a small boy, to the detriment of his digestion, he had wheedled illicit cakes from his mother's. Mrs. Campbell was both pained and surprised; she was also busy. But Marchant smiled winningly.

"Good morning, Mrs. Campbell," he greeted her. "I know I ought not to be here. I know that at this time of the morning, I ought not to be anywhere but in bed. But I had a bad night with toothache and couldn't bear it."

"Toothache's terrible, sir," she assented. "I've had it myself. Now, what you want to do is to get a nice poultice of hot onions on your face before you go to bed."

"It's too late this morning," Marchant answered. "I've too much to do to wear an onion poultice—but isn't that a cup of tea?"

"If you'd wait a moment, sir, Mr. Keyne would bring you one in the morning room."

"I'd sooner have it here." Marchant forcibly annexed a stray cup, perhaps the stately Keyne's, but he was past caring about trifles.

Again Mrs. Campbell capitulated. Marchant accepted the cup and sipped it. So far he had successfully shattered all the decorum of the servants' quarters.

"You're busy, of course," he said. "I ought not to interrupt you... I see you've got one of those electric stoves. Very handy, I should think. But they break down a lot."

"Not this one, sir!" Mrs. Campbell rose in defence of what had become almost a pet. "I didn't hold with them at first, myself, sir, but I must say that they do save trouble. We've had no breakdown at all, except when that Alice let something boil over on to the wires—"

"Anyway, my lights have been terrible lately," Marchant said untruthfully. "I don't know if it's the fault of the company or what it is, but they've gone off time after time."

"Funny, sir. I've heard others say the same, but we've had no trouble here... Not but what, for some things, you can't beat a good range—"

"Or even candles and lamps?" Marchant suggested. "Yes. But in any case, if anything went wrong. I expect Keyne or someone would put it right?"

"Not Mr. Keyne, sir. Like myself, he's a horror of the wires. I don't mind using them, sir, but I daren't touch them."

"But surely there was a breakdown the day before yesterday?" Marchant persisted. "I thought Mr. Amberwood said something—at about quarter-past or half-past five?"

"Not here, sir. I'd got the cooker on all the time—and, though poor Mr. Garrow's dying spoilt it, I couldn't have missed it if there'd been anything of that kind with the dinner I was cooking."

"Probably I misunderstood him. You saw the lights go up in the studio yourself, didn't you, Mrs. Campbell?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Ethel and I and Alice all saw them. And I remember the time, because Mr. Keyne came in from the butler's pantry, and he says: 'The old—' I mean to say, sir, 'Mr. Garrow's put his lights on then? Quarter to six. About time we had ours.'"

"Those American clocks aren't always accurate," Marchant criticised. "It might have been fast or slow."

"No, sir. We've got the wireless here. I checked it up at six o'clock, sir, and it was right to the minute."

"I just wondered. Someone said that tea was early that day. I thought it might have been a few minutes fast."

"Tea was on the stroke, sir. Mr. Garrow isn't—wasn't a great man for his meals, but he liked to have them punctual, even if he didn't come. We always got them ready a minute or two before, just long enough to get along the passage. Generally the clock was striking when the tray was put down, sir, or so Ethel says."

"It's a nice kitchen you've got," Marchant observed, changing the conversation. "Better than those poky little places you get in some of the older houses... Almost too big for you, I should have thought."

"The staff's too small, sir, that's the reason... Yes, it's a nice room, but it is a bit lonely at times."

"Oh, no, sir. He's married. Once in a way, his wife and he will come in, if there's anything special on. I don't hold with his wife. She's not sociable, if you know what I mean."

"Mind if I have a look?" Marchant asked, laying down his cup. "That's a pantry, isn't it? Yes. Nice lot of shelf-room. That's another. The scullery... Yes. Much more convenient these low deep sinks, I should think. What's that?"

The small room, little more than a cupboard, into which Marchant looked reflected the austere personality of its occupant. With the cook at his elbow, Marchant only glanced round, noting the parquet floor covered in the centre with a rug, and the derelict, but comfortable easy chair in which, no doubt, Keyne was accustomed to repose in the intervals of his duties. He nodded approval as he closed the door.

"Then Parsons wasn't in that night—I mean when Mr. Garrow died?" he asked with the best assumption of casualness that he could muster. He saw his mistake almost at once, as the look of suspicion dawned in her eyes, and hurried on, "I've never met him, you know, but he ought to have met me and didn't. I've still got the blister from walking."

"That wouldn't be Parson's fault, sir. He's a most reliable man. No, sir. He wasn't in—not for more than a minute, maybe, at about half past six."

Marchant nodded. He was on the point of further questions when the entrance of the abashed Alice put an end to them. He smiled at the cook again.

"Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Campbell," he said. "I'm in the way, of course... I'll go out for a walk until a more reasonable hour, so that you won't be falling over me."

Not unaware of the speculative regard of Alice, Marchant left the kitchen, and was as good as his word. He went as far, at least, as to let himself out by the front door, and stroll in the garden, admiring as he did so the situation which Garrow had chosen. The great green-roofed mansion stood on the crest of the southern headland of a tiny cove. Below, a long, low valley fell away gently to the sea; while inland, the grey stone cottages of the village seemed scarcely less a natural part of the landscape than the granite outcrops in the brown hills behind them.

But Marchant did not pause long to admire the view. Principally he was interested in the windows at the back which seemed to have played so unusually a prominent part in the scheme of things. As he rounded the studio wing, the reason was plain enough. The house had not been built actually on the hill crest, but a little below it. The level of the back was higher; it was only a short drop from the landing window to the ground. Further on, Kay Garrow's window showed a higher drop, but that was counteracted by the presence of the outbuilding below it.

He had verified the fact that the studio could, in fact, be seen from the kitchen window; that Alice could have seen the top of the garden where Garstane and Kay Garrow had met, and various other nonessential points, into which he looked only as a matter of precaution, when he saw an elderly man coming towards him who, in spite of the absence of uniform, he recognised as Parsons. He was a pensioner type, probably naval, and as they approached, he looked at Marchant with the air of a man prepared to take someone as he found him.

"Good morning," Marchant greeted him. "Such a lovely morning that I couldn't stay in bed. You've a nice garden here."

"Not so bad," Parsons assented. "It'd be better, though, if we'd a bit more help. It's too much for one man, and that's a fact, with a casual man three times a week who doesn't know a beetroot from a brussels sprout."

"And, of course, you've got the car as well, haven't you? You're the man I was praying for at the station."

"That wasn't my fault, sir!" Parsons fired up. "I ain't no bloomin' mind-reader, as I said to Keyne, when he spoke to me about it. No one told me, sir, and how was I to know?"

"That would be Mr. Garrow's fault, I expect?" Marchant suggested. "He was pretty absent-minded, wasn't he?"

"I wouldn't say that, sir... Anyway, generally it wasn't him that told me. He'd tell Mr. Amberwood, or Keyne, or send one of the maids. I'd bet it was one of them that forgot, if the truth be known."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Marchant said untruthfully. "It was funny about the damage to the cars, wasn't it?"

"Wasn't damage, really, sir—and I must say, I didn't see the fun in sweating on a bike up these hills... Someone had deliberately pushed a sod into the exhaust pipes, sir. I wish I could find the beggar!"

Marchant nodded towards a structure not far from the end of the house of which the shape sufficiently proclaimed its purpose.

"Yes, that's it, sir... No, as it happened it wasn't locked. You see, when I brought back your luggage, sir, I'd got my hands full, so I left the locking up until later. But I'd swear that it wasn't more than twenty minutes that it was open."

"No, sir. I'll know another time. You see, the engines would start up for a turn or two, then they'd choke. I was looking at the air supply and so on."

"Not a minute each, sir, if you'd got the sods ready. Whoever did it pushed the block well up—with the garage broom handle. I found the earth on it later."

"You ought to be a detective, Parsons!" Marchant approved, and was glad to see that Parsons expanded under this doubtful compliment. "You must show me round sometime before I go... Those are tree onions over there, aren't they—those spiky things?"

"Yes, sir—a large sort. It's a fine garden. Pity if they leave it, sir. You don't know what's going to happen, I suppose?"

As he left Parsons, Marchant was really tired of the garden, but he hesitated to re-enter the house. He was just on the point of overcoming his bashfulness when a familiar figure rounded the corner of the studio. McClean hurried towards him.

"They told me you'd come down and come out into the garden," he greeted. "I nearly fainted... What got you up so soon? Not a guilty conscience? You didn't wipe the gun, or kill Garrow, did you?"

"Yes. Amberwood's coming down by the first train. I just wanted to get things straightened out in my mind."

"Not exactly. He's been respectfully asked if he'll come back, as I'm pining to see him. He'd have been arrested if he refused, of course. It's a distinction without much difference."

"I don't know... That's just it. Certainly not until I've had another little talk with Miss Garrow. I only hope that she's early."

"I hope you're not repeating your last night's tactics?" Marchant smiled. "If you do that kind of thing often, there will be questions in Parliament!"

"I was fed up. But, actually it worked, and there's no harm done. Why, she even smiled as she said 'Good morning' to me."

"More than she did to me. She bolted—recognising the more dangerous, subtle brain! Then you've pondered on what she said?"

"Yes. And I don't mind saying that it's got me puzzled. I believe her, all right. And the mere fact that I do makes me more inclined to believe the rest. Because she supplies confirmation of their stories of a kind which they couldn't possibly suspect. I won't say that their being proved right in one point proves them right in all, but it makes one more hopeful. And that leads to a complete deadlock... You see, if we really believe that Mrs. Garrow did what she told you; and that the girl and Amberwood did what they finally said, it not only exonerates them, but everyone else! I'm perfectly sure that the studio couldn't be entered except by the doors. I'm certain, in view of the way the doors fit, that no human means could shoot the bolts of that garden door with string and wax or anything of that kind. And there's no trace of it. So, apart from all this business of the letters, we get back to the fact that either Mrs. Garrow did it, or Jessica Garrow and Amberwood."

"You haven't researched this morning. You merely vamped the cook. She's fallen for you thoroughly... But Mrs. Campbell is one of the people in the house who can really be acquitted on all grounds. Also, as she was in the kitchen all the time, she can't tell us a thing, except about the other servants and the studio lights."

"I agree about acquitting her. But you're wrong on the other point. Over a nice, strong cup of tea she told me three things, or helped me to find them out."

"Go and vamp her yourself! You laughed at my blister; you had me followed in Bristol. Begone!... Seriously, Mac, I'm hot on the trail. I'll really tell you something soon!"

"I'll be glad to find anyone in this house who tells me the truth—that is, if you do!... Isn't this damp earth bad for your blister? I've not had my tea yet. Let's go in."

"Anyway," Marchant said presently, "apart from the fact that I've finished imbibing the morning air there's something I'd really like to see inside... That pastel—you never showed it me."

"In here." McClean led the way into the morning-room and unlocked a cupboard. "That's it. And the funny thing is, both Mrs. Garrow and I seem to know the face and can't place it."

Marchant looked at the half-completed sketch for about half a minute. Then he laid a hand sympathetically on McClean's shoulder.

"Mac, you ought to retire," he said. "You can't see why the face seems familiar? I admit that one's a man and the other's a woman. But, it's unmistakable. It's Amberwood!"

CHAPTER XXII
Amberwood's Return

MCCLEAN almost snatched the blood-stained sheet from Marchant's hand. He glanced at it for an instant; then he swore briefly but vividly. For a perceptible time he stood holding it helpless in his surprise. Marchant came to his rescue.

"As a matter of fact, you're not much to blame. Resemblances in faces are pretty elusive, and the thing's only half finished. But don't you think I'm right?"

"But, where does it get us?" he asked. "It links Amberwood up with everything more than ever. That young man will have a lot of explaining to do."

"And no doubt he'll do it. He's got to say something about why he went to Bristol, and went to the detective agency in London. He's sure to see that... As you say, it links him up with things all the more closely. This is a portrait of his mother, or some relative, Garrow was so interested in her that he was actually sketching her from memory just before he died. And that accounts for a lot. Supposing she was the wife of Hearnes; that Garrow ran away with her and left her. I was told that there was no child—but she might have been expecting one. That's what the letters mean when they refer to 'how you got your start.' Because, not only did Hearnes' wife run away, but his business went bust. It might mean that he lost his grip. But it might mean that Mrs. Hearnes bolted with some necessary cash—and that's how Garrow starved to save the money which paid for his training in Rome and Florence."

"I'd like to say that no man could be such a sweep," he said. "Unfortunately, I've met men who wouldn't hesitate a minute... Think of it! All these marvellous pictures that everyone raves about—all based on a filthy business like that!"

"You mustn't be too hard on him. It was abominable, judged by all human standards. But Garrow was an artist. He didn't think much about what happened to people. And, later, he seems to have tried in a way to make amends. That's why Amberwood's here."

"And why we may have to hang him, for doing a job for which he ought to be given a medal," McClean answered grimly. "Could you blame him for killing Garrow, if he found out? Or, for that matter, could you blame Jessica Garrow for shielding her father's murderer?"

"Steady. We're going too fast. We still don't know that Amberwood did it. Of course he's tied up in it. But you mustn't forget that there are several more or less conflicting spheres of action in this little drama. Actually, the letters and Amberwood's parentage may not have anything to do with the crime."

Marchant hesitated. "No, as a matter of fact, I don't," he admitted. "On the other hand, I shouldn't be at all surprised if Amberwood was innocent. And my chief reason for thinking so is the time that I put in vamping the cook this morning. Until then, Amberwood was as likely a candidate as anyone. Now, he's almost ruled out."

"But his evidence!" McClean exclaimed. "The time of death—the lights going on—"

"Oh, the light?" Marchant smiled provokingly. "That's one of the points I settled... I'll give you a hint, Mac, the light was switched on all the time, and no one saw it!"

"You mean, it was switched on in the studio, but turned off at the main?" he asked. "That would do it—"

"Getting warmer. Unfortunately, my interview with Mrs. Campbell proved that she was using the electric cooker all that time. There was no failure of current. If the main switch had been off, so would the power in the stove have been. Think again, Mac!"

"You're not going to tell me," McClean said aggressively. "That's your second private mystery. I mean the other was how you spotted that Garrow had lodged with Hearnes."

"I'll tell you that one—because you're almost bound to know as soon as you hear from the Bristol police. Even they couldn't miss it now... I found where Garrow lodged by acting in defiance of the well-known saying of the wish being father to the thought. My wish was father to my thought—and it produced a perfectly creditable offspring."

"Cut it out," McClean said wearily. "If you like, when this case is over, I'll listen for an hour or two while you say things like that. Not now. Let's have it."

"I looked through the list of tenants in Aspramont Buildings at the time in the desperate hope that there might be some name which conveyed something to me. As a matter of fact there wasn't at that time. If I'd known about Garrow's will, of course, it would have been simple. But if there wasn't a name there was something else... Our chief bother, or one of them, in this case, has been the locking of the studio doors, hasn't it? And, if you remember, the anonymous letters were signed with cross keys." Marchant paused. "The entry for No. 8, Aspramont Buildings was simply this: 'L. J. Hearnes (locksmith)'!"

McClean was speechless. He only stared at Marchant with the air of a man whose thoughts are too deep for words.

"When I found a locksmith in Aspramont Buildings, it looked so like a gift from heaven that I inquired about him. I found that his wife had left him, and that he'd left soon after the time Garrow should have been there. It might have been coincidence, but it wasn't. When one talks about an unpickable lock, or says that there are only two keys, one only means that it can't be picked easily and that only two keys were made for it. But, if a man who knew the job had plenty of time to devote to it, or if he had the key for only a minute when he was ready to take a wax impression, of course he could open the door—and shut it again."

"I'd bet they stayed there absolutely undisturbed. Whoever went in had his own key. He made it himself... You see, it's not so easy taking a wax impression to a respectable tradesman and asking him to make a key. He might think it funny. He'd certainly remember it."

"Then—" There was a sudden eagerness in McClean's voice. "Oh, deuce take you!"

For a moment Marchant thought that the Inspector was referring to him, but in fact the entrance of the faithful Sergeant Waltham had caused the exclamation. He looked at his superior in hurt astonishment. It was clear that tidings were hot on his lips.

"Superintendent Kirke's here, sir," Waltham announced aggrievedly. "He says he's got to see you urgently. About Mr. Garstane, sir."

The sergeant's voice showed that he thought the news was momentous; but he must have been disappointed in the way in which McClean received it.

"Garstane? Oh, I'd forgotten about him... Come in, Kirke!" McClean's voice conveyed the idea of terrible suffering nobly borne. "What's up?"

"They've operated," Kirke announced. He nodded to Marchant. "Good morning, Mr. Marchant... They've operated, and when he came round he said a bit before he went off again. He'll pull through all right. We hadn't time to call you, but we'd got a man by his bed in case anything happened."

"Yes. What did he say?" McClean asked almost as though he had no interest in the question. He saw Marchant sidling towards the door. "You're not going, Marchant?"

Marchant smiled exasperatingly. "Tell me about it afterwards," he said. "The hour for breakfast approaches. The normal routine of the day begins—is well under way. I'm going upstairs. See you at breakfast."

Kirke was staggered. He eyed Marchant's departing form with incredulity, and a trace of disappointment.

"Not by any means," McClean frowned. "I only wish that I knew what he'd got in his head now. As I say, in this case, one doesn't get a chance to think."

"About Garstane," Kirke broke in, a little annoyed. "As I say, he came round and spoke a little. But, as a matter of fact, he didn't say anything terribly helpful. There was a lot about Mrs. Garrow and his being in love with her. And he seemed to be annoyed about something. And he said that life wasn't worth living, and he decided to kill himself. Roughly, that's all."

"And, as a matter of fact, it's enough," McClean answered. "We can question him later, if its necessary. I doubt if it will be... I believe that we're on the right track at last—and I might say that Marchant put us there. What you've said confirms what Mrs. Garrow told him. Garstane wanted to run away with her; she was tempted to go and then laughed at him. I think that's why he jumped over the cliff. Kirke, what do you know about electric light?"

"Electric light?" The Superintendent echoed the words incredulously. "I don't get you. What d'you mean?"

"It's like this. Thanks to that old fool Murray, we're all at sea about the time Garrow died." He broke off as an idea occurred to him. "By the way, in that case where Murray came a cropper early on which way was his error? Did he put death too soon, or too late?"

"Too soon. Over an hour too soon. But, as a matter of fact, it was excusable. He—"

"That's it!" McClean burst out. "It blighted his life, warped his judgment and so on. Of course, he'd go to the opposite extreme. If there was any doubt, he'd put it late rather than early. That's what he did!"

"Yes." McClean rose to his feet. "Let's have a look at it at the actual place—the studio. Marchant's on to something. I'm not. See if you can tumble to it."

Kirke said nothing as they made their way down the lounge. He looked at the switch of the studio lights dubiously, pressed it, and switched it off again.

"The problem is this," McClean explained. "The wiring of these lights is in perfect order. I've verified that. You can take it from me that there are exactly the wires that were first put in here, no more and no less. Marchant suggests that there was some way of switching them on so that the light wasn't visible, and letting the light show when you wanted it from some other place. It wasn't the main switch, because there was other power being used at the time. Any suggestions?"

"Marchant must be daft," Kirke decided. "If the wires haven't been interfered with, it couldn't be done. Unless someone took the globes out, and came into the room to put them back! And there'd be no sense in that—"

He was hurrying up the room before Kirke had realised the cause of his astonishment. As the Superintendent joined him he was standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the opening which had been revealed by the piece of woodwork which had fallen down. Automatically his hand explored the recess, though he saw that it was empty. They were rewarded by no more than a rubber band which slipped under his fingers. He held it up without speaking.

"It's what Waltham's visitor came for," McClean answered grimly. "You see there's a recess here. Garrow must have used it for keeping secret papers in... Why, by George of course! This must have been where the letters were!"

"Yes," he assented. "They're gone. And they hadn't gone yesterday. I know, because, with some silly idea of a secret passage I had the wall sounded. You can see what happened. Whoever took the papers had to force the lock—"

He bent over to scrutinise the fireplace; then he pointed triumphantly to a small hole where the scarred wood showed through the polish.

"See!" he said. "He had to force it—and it's such a tiny keyhole that he couldn't help leaving traces when he picked it open. Then he couldn't lock it again. He must have thought that he'd done it, or that it would stay up of its own accord. But it didn't. It fell down."

"We had some of them. There were gaps, though—probably the more important ones. Those we found were planted as we thought. I can see it all—"

McClean grinned. "Who do you think? Look, there was a constable on duty all night. He only came off at six o'clock this morning. It wasn't done then. Garstane's in hospital—has just been operated on. Amberwood is in the charge of the police. Then, who was it?"

"And I meant it. It's as clear as daylight—" He broke off. "No, it isn't... There's the light."

"And, if you're talking about anyone else in the house, except Alice, may I point out that there's an alibi?" Kirke said a little irritably. "The only other male member of the household is Keyne. You know yourself that he's a bedrock alibi for all his time—practically the whole afternoon... You're not getting at Norris by any chance?"

McClean did not notice the sarcasm of the question. He felt all at once terribly disappointed.

"I don't quite see it, but it's somewhere very close," he said after a pause. "I wonder where the devil Marchant—" He stopped again. "Look here, Kirke, I want some men here. I want enough to be absolutely sure that not a soul gets out of this house for the next three or four hours. No one's to be allowed to go. No one. Get that?"

Kirke shrugged his shoulders. "Right," he assented with a trace of unwillingness. "I don't see what you're getting at. But you know best. I'll get on the 'phone at once."

Left alone in the studio, McClean absently moved the door to and fro, but his mind was not on the recess. He was trying to work out in his mind how the impossible could be possible, and wanting to speak to Marchant very urgently. He looked up hopefully at the sound of approaching footsteps, but it was only the sergeant.

"They've just brought back Mr. Amberwood, sir!" Waltham said, and once again he was disappointed in the sensation caused by his news.

CHAPTER XXIII
An Alibi Shaken

IN the lounge a very sullen young man was awaiting them in the charge of an alert-eyed, stolid-looking man to whom McClean nodded recognition. He had no time to do more; for Amberwood burst out into excited speech.

"Look here, what are you doing?" he demanded. "Am I under arrest? What the devil—?" He broke off, looking towards the staircase, and his face changed. "Jessica!"

Regardless of the watching police forces, Jessica Garrow ran down the stairs, and in a moment her arms were around Amberwood's neck. For a moment she clung there; then she disengaged herself and turned upon McClean fiercely.

"He didn't do it—he didn't!" she flamed. "You can't arrest him! I was with him all the time—if you take him—"

McClean sighed. He regarded even the secretary's presence at that moment as a nuisance, much though he had longed for it a short time before.

"My dear Miss Garrow," he said soothingly; then his own irritation got the better of his judgment. "Mr. Amberwood's not under arrest. He ran away. We simply asked him to come back to explain why he'd been such an ass!"

"He was coming back! He never meant to run away! It's not true. I won't let you take him. I love him. I know that he didn't do it."

"He did go to Bristol," McClean recovered his self-possession. "He did go on to London from there. I'm aware that circumstances indicate that he was coming back. And I've no intention of charging him with— Ah! Marchant! Here a minute."

Marchant was descending the stairs with annoying deliberation. It looked as though he had no more urgent errand for his departure from the conference than the desire to do his hair. Certainly he had changed his suit. McClean could cheerfully have choked him for it. He drew him aside, out of earshot of the rest of the group.

"It's O.K.," he said. "We're very nearly there. I'll tell you about it afterwards... Better see Amberwood now, and put his mind at rest. Anyway, we'll want his story. We've got to clear him."

"We found something else," McClean murmured. "A recess in the fireplace—empty. It was open... But the lights, and the alibi?"

"Trust your uncle. And for the lord's sake look as if Amberwood was the one aim of your life. We don't want to give the game away."

"He won't bolt." McClean had noted the unobtrusive departure of Superintendent Kirke. "Right."

Amberwood had been waiting impatiently. Even Jessica Garrow's protecting arm about him had barely been able to restrain him. As McClean returned, he faced him furiously.

"Miss Garrow!" Marchant appealed. "Surely you understand, that, if there's an explanation to be given, it had better be given more privately... We've no doubt that Mr. Amberwood can explain everything. I will even say that we know why he went to Bristol and to London." McClean's eyebrows jerked slightly, but Marchant ignored him. "Only, you must see, it would be better if he told us himself."

The defiance in Jessica Garrow's eyes faded as she looked at him. She turned to Amberwood pleadingly.

"Please, Peter!" she begged. "Mr. Marchant is right. I am sure that everything can be explained."

Amberwood nodded unwilling assent. He did not speak again as they followed McClean and Marchant into the morning room.

Waltham took a reluctant departure, and Marchant could not help feeling sympathetic. It must have been tantalising in the extreme to be excluded at that interesting moment, but in view of what they knew McClean was certainly right.

The Inspector seemed at a loss how to begin. Amberwood was glaring fiercely across the table, plainly on the verge of another outburst, but Jessica Garrow intervened.

Amberwood swallowed hard. He seemed to steel himself to the resolution before he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," he said. "I expect that I've been a fool... But things have been such a strain. And it was so obvious that you and Mr. Marchant were suspicious about me. I don't blame you. There's a lot that I don't understand myself... That's why I ran away."

McClean nodded with genuine sympathy. Inconvenient as Amberwood had been to him, he could appreciate what the young man must be feeling, and would still have to go through.

"I think we know more than you imagine, Mr. Amberwood," he said. "We may even have news for you later. I don't know that I can call it good news. But we'd like to know what took you to Bristol—and London."

"Just that I was desperate," Amberwood was getting calmer. "You see, there was so much you were likely to want to know that I didn't know myself... I was talking over the business of the letters with Jessica afterwards. And I seemed to remember the name Herne or Hearnes or something, and the name of a place in Bristol—Aspramont Buildings. The latter seemed to be threatening Mr. Garrow for something which had happened there... Of course, the sensible thing would have been to come and tell you. But I wasn't feeling sensible. I don't mind admitting that I was scared."

"You see, I never understood just what my position was. When I saw the name of the place in Bristol, I naturally remembered it. I knew Bristol. My earliest recollections are of being there—in the poor house. Well, I suppose it was some kind of an institutional school, but there's little enough difference. Then I was taken away. I was adopted, theoretically, by a Mr. George Amberwood. But I'm fairly sure that he was only a figure-head. He wasn't interested in me—didn't care what I did. Anyway, they sent me to a tutor's, and afterwards to Oxford. I never knew who my parents were. I never knew who paid for my education. Only, as time went on, I was pretty sure it wasn't my adopted father.

"I wasn't specially surprised when Garrow offered me a job as secretary—largely because I'd no idea about what a secretary's duties were. I'd not been doing it long before I knew that he could have found a dozen better ones at half what he was paying me. It was so obvious that there was something behind it... Then quite by chance, I came across an old letter. I wasn't spying or anything like that. It had simply got mixed up with the stuff I was dealing with, and I read it before I realised what it was. And it was about me, written by that detective agency that I went to call on. It said practically nothing, except that inquiries were still proceeding. It worried me. About that time, that anonymous letter turned up. Thinking it over, I've realised that it was from then that my trouble with Garrow started.

"Previously he'd been particularly kind to me—more so than to anyone in the house. All at once he switched right round. He must have known long before that I was getting fond of Jessica. At any rate, we made no especial efforts to hide it. But it was only later on, after he'd got his knife into me, that he seemed to notice it. He was furiously angry, told us that it was absurd and must stop; threw in my face the fact that I didn't know my parents. There was something else. It was a silly business. He actually tried to suggest that I'd cashed a cheque without his authority and had taken the money. It was utter nonsense. Later he let the whole thing drop. He never believed it himself."

Amberwood paused as if trying to collect his thoughts. McClean was on the point of speaking when Jessica Garrow intervened.

"What we told you about being in the snuggery was perfectly true, Inspector," she said. "We lied about it at first—because—because evidently there were so many people who would say that Peter had a motive for killing father. And he wasn't anxious for things to come out. Would you have been? But you took us by surprise. We hadn't worked things out together, and of course we didn't lie very well. But it was quite true. We were sitting there all the time, talking things over. We were even thinking of running away. No one came."

"Yes. But I'm almost certain that she couldn't have done it. I mean, not that I don't think she was capable of that—though I don't think she was—but that really she wouldn't have had time. It seemed longer to us than it was."

"That's possible," Marchant said. "But we're not immediately concerned with it. You got there, I think, about ten to five. No one else came but Mrs. Garrow while you were there?"

"Not quite. I think I said before that tea was a little early—not much. Only about five minutes or so, I'm sure, because I wasn't quite ready. I was finishing a letter. I thought that the clock must be slow, or something because the meals were always punctual."

"No. Because later on, just as we were finishing tea, Peter switched on the wireless to see if there was anything worth hearing. It was absolutely right."

McClean looked worried. He glanced across at Marchant, but his companion's face showed nothing. He hesitated; then turned again to Amberwood.

"I may as well tell you now as later, Mr. Amberwood," he said. "I suppose that you were not aware that, in his will, Mr. Garrow left you a life interest in five thousand pounds, and desired that you should resume your real name of—Peter Hearnes?"

"Yes." McClean looked down on the table. Even though Peter had never known his father, he could not bring himself to say that he would shortly have to arrest him on a charge of murder. "You understand that this, when we discovered it, was an additional ground of suspicion. Your father suffered a great wrong at the hands of Mr. Garrow. Afterwards, when the deaths of your parents were reported, Mr. Garrow seems to have done his best to make it up. That was why he brought you here. Perhaps he would not have objected to your marriage with his daughter—for I gather that it's got so far?" Peter Amberwood blushed; Jessica did not. Her face showed the studied control which Marchant had noticed on his first arrival; only her hands were clenched hard. "It was when the letters came, as you said, threatening his life, that his feelings towards you changed... I think that's all at the moment—"

"Then, he's free?" Jessica Garrow started gladly to her feet. "You believe him."

Amberwood held out his hand, and McClean perforce had to take it, though he felt scruples.

"I think I ought to thank you, Mr. McClean—and you, Mr. Marchant," the secretary said. "I've behaved like an idiot. It must have bothered you. But who—"

"That's a thing I can't say just yet," McClean answered the question before it was completed... "That's all, Mr. Amberwood."

Jessica Garrow hesitated as they went towards the door, turning to McClean with a face which was suddenly transfigured. For a moment, Marchant almost hoped that she was going to kiss the Inspector; but he was disappointed. McClean was not. He wiped his brow as the door closed behind them.

"Exit happy couple the first," he said. "They're fixed, anyhow... Rather ironical when you come to think of it. However, they're a good match. He's got no brains, she has."

"That's your recipe for married bliss?" Marchant smiled; then suddenly grew sober. "I suppose they will be all right. But I don't like to think of what's coming."

"If only one was sure it was coming. I get your theory, all right. It was Keyne, of course."

"Only on the word of that old fool at the pub. Quite possibly there were other Hearnes. He only said he saw it in the list. Everything points to the fact that Keyne is Hearnes; that he is the father of Amberwood; that he came here with the deliberate intention of making Garrow as miserable as he had been, and at last killing him. That's only too plain. I wish it wasn't."

"You're too sentimental for this game," he murmured. "I don't say that you've not the talent, but you've not the nature. What business of ours is it if Garrow was a sweep who deserved to be bumped off? None. A policeman can't take upon himself to readjust the law of the land and the nature of the world. He can only ascertain the facts carefully and try to see that the law is carried out, or the offenders punished. If Keyne's guilty—"

"I think that he is. But I think there's quite a lot to be done before we can prove it. For example, we think that he's Hearnes. But he's got a perfectly respectable identity as Keyne. Has had for years. Excellent references and so on... Then there's his alibi. You've not broken that down. He couldn't have murdered Garrow in one or two minutes. He hadn't more. Or, if he had done, he'd have been thoroughly out of breath when he got back to the kitchen. No one noticed it."

"No, he couldn't have done it in two minutes—or only by running all the way there and back," Marchant agreed. "But he could in six or seven. And that's the time he really had. I should think that was plain enough."

"When they were checked—at different times. I'm inclined to think that the drawing-room clock was right. But I'd point out that tea was early. And the cook swears that it left the kitchen at the right time to a minute. Ethel doesn't seem to have noticed the drawing-room clock. That's where his alibi might have slipped up."

"Keyne only wanted an alibi for about five minutes. It would take him hardly any time at all to go along the lounge, open the door and shoot Garrow, locking it up afterwards. He could have done it in five or six minutes all right. Of course, the evidence shows that he hadn't got five to seven minutes, but about two. But the evidence was given by people who saw two different clocks. It was the kitchen clock he altered."

"Sometime before quarter past four. I was talking to Alice a little while ago—she's forgiven us—and from what I gather, the real position is this. No one was left alone for very long in the kitchen regions; so they thought that they were together all the time. But, in fact, it's more than possible that Keyne was alone at various odd times, for a minute or so. He could alter the clock then."

"Theoretical," McClean objected. "And wouldn't they notice a five minute jump? It was a big risk."

"He wasn't such a fool as to take it. Look here, Mac. If you went out of this room, say to get your pipe from your overcoat pocket. You'd know it hadn't taken you say, six or seven minutes, and if you saw the clock said that it had you'd think there was something funny. But supposing you were out of the room one minute, and when you came back I'd altered the clock to show two, would you notice that?"

"I mean that he altered the clock, several times, by a minute or so each, right under their noses. If they'd gone in and out of the room enough, he could have gained a lot more. Then he just reversed the process. It wasn't till six that the wireless was turned on. He'd plenty of time."

"Ingenious but—" McClean shrugged. "Even if we showed that that was possible, there were the lights. How could he switch those on when he was actually in the kitchen at the time."

"Actually, he wasn't," Marchant corrected. "But that's a strong point against him. In fact, if he committed the murder, he was the one person who could have done that. There's another thing. As he was relying on an alibi, time was very important to him. He killed Garrow at about half-past four, but he wanted death to be put as late as possible. He couldn't fake the medical evidence, but if the light was seen, it might put people on the wrong track. So he had to see to it that the light was seen, and the time noted. He did. It wasn't necessary, as it happened, but he took no risks."

"You haven't told me— Oh, I suppose you're keeping that up your sleeve for the time being. Still, even if we show that Keyne could have committed the murder, we're a long way from knowing that he did. You've little enough evidence—"

"I've more than you think. So far as I'm concerned, it's not a question of can we prove Keyne guilty but, do I want to? Am I justified in doing it? Consider what it will mean to Amberwood and Jessica Garrow. The knowledge would be bad enough, but the publicity of the trial—"

"You're not justified in doing anything else. It's no use, Davy. You can't take it upon yourself to be judge, jury, psycho-analyst, censor of morals and everything. If I arrest a thug for bashing an old woman on the head for her ten-shilling pension, I can't take into consideration that he's the father of twins, or that his nurse dropped him when he was a baby. You've got to get Keyne. Because, it was certainly someone. The only other possibility is Mrs. Garrow."

"I think it's not. I think it's Keyne. But it was someone." McClean smiled grimly. "Suppose my own inferior detective powers failed to prove that Keyne was Hearnes, for example. Or suppose I didn't get the evidence you seem to have, not that a respectable butler could do it, but that he did do it? Even if I didn't decide that Mrs. Garrow must be guilty, I might be superseded. Then—"

"Right!" Marchant capitulated. "I suppose we must... Well, I think we could do it anyway. But there's a short cut. We might scare him into giving himself away."

"Call a sort of conference in the studio. Start to tell them all about it—that it must have been someone in the room and so on. Then—at the psychological moment turn off the lights—just as the murderer turned them on. From outside. If not—it seems cruel but there's Garrow's sketch—"

"That would have to be to-night." Mentally, McClean was admiring Marchant's new-found ruthlessness. "In the meantime—"

"Plenty. Bristol have probably found something about Hearnes. Find out about Keyne's previous places; where the switch over to the name Keyne took place, and how. Lend me Waltham for the afternoon. Get—get Kirke or someone to keep the whole staff just as busy as he can—taking depositions—anything so that they shall all be shut up for about an hour, say in the morning-room. I tell you, once we really get down to it, we can't fail. Now, I'll leave you and get busy."

CHAPTER XXIV
The Stage is Set

MCCLEAN was not exactly a student of the classics. Yet, in his higher moments, he read poetry, at least so far as was included in The Oxford Book of English Verse. Marchant's activities in the next few hours moved him to quotation.

"Lo! What it is to love!" he murmured as he saw Marchant approaching. "For two pins that young man would let Keyne get away with it. But not if it meant Mrs. Garrow. Subtlety, subtlety—"

Marchant's arrival cut short what might have been an excellent, if self-congratulatory, soliloquy. Though it was far from being his state of mind, he looked at Marchant pessimistically.

Marchant was evidently elated. If McClean had had less experience of the world, it might have annoyed him, all things considered. As it was, he was content to reap the benefits which could be derived from it.

Sometimes McClean was stupid. Sometimes he only pretended to be. The results on his face were always the same. He eyed the gleaming specks of metal which Marchant displayed without apparent comprehension.

"I found them in Keyne's bedroom—and in the butler's pantry," Marchant announced. "No, I didn't find the key or the letters. It wouldn't be surprising if he carried those about with him—though he's probably disposed of the key. And you say that you've had word—about the references? Sergeant Waltham's message—"

"Waltham's a fool," McClean said rudely. "I wish I was. I feel like the Quaker's wife—'All the world's mad, except thee and me, and thee's a bit mad.' If I wasn't clever—"

"Keyne came to this house from the Honourable Mr. Francis Gillings," McClean said expressionlessly. "He left, with the highest references, because the honourable was going abroad. He came to Garrow. Before that, he'd been for some years with Major-General Charles Dentworthy. He left, with the highest references, to go to Mr. Gillings. Before that, he fought in the war. He was a darned good soldier. He just missed the V.C., won two or three decorations of sorts; and came out to a hard world pretty well broke. That happened to other men."

"As Keyne all the time?" Marchant asked. He was not feeling in the mood for the Inspector's philosophy. Though a little before his sympathies had been with the man he was trying to convict, his recent interview with McClean had changed his whole outlook. "All the time?"

"Yes," McClean answered. "On the other hand, he seems to have enlisted about the time that Hearnes faded from mortal ken. It might be coincidence... My own view is that he didn't know anything about the boy—doesn't know now. He enlisted meaning to get killed, or take it out of someone, anyhow, that explains his distinguished career."

Marchant did not notice the other's cynicism. He was too immersed in working out the evidence.

"But, I don't see how he came to be a butler," he said. "In the ordinary way, one works up—"

"The General made him a butler because he was a good soldier," McClean explained. "I know it sounds silly, but it's the way people's minds work. He might have made a rotten butler, but, as it happens, he didn't. He was a good butler. The Gillings family thought so, Garrow thought so. We thought so—"

"And quite a fair locksmith," Marchant rejoined. "At least, that's a fairly intricate key. If he filed one like it—and, of course, he did. We found the filings in his rooms."

"Now, I quite thought that you'd bought them at the chemists', aiming to make fireworks for the fifth of November!" he said. "Steel filings, you know, make the bright sparks that you get in fireworks. You should try it sometime..."

"You're blithering!" Marchant said rudely. "The point is that everything is set. Will it work?"

"And, if not—" McClean began and broke off cruelly. Marchant was sublimely indifferent to the strange reversal of their mental outlooks, but he was not. At that moment, he was sorry for the man whom he was trying to catch. "Well, we'll see... And now, as a famous character remarked, if you've no more brilliant discoveries to reveal, I want to be alone—"

"I have," Marchant paused before his triumph. "Finger-prints. There was just one place where he might leave them—because he couldn't very well put on gloves in the time he had available. He did. We got them."

"Waltham will be pleased," McClean answered. "I suppose one needn't say that there's hardly a spot in the house, barring the revolver butt, where Keyne wouldn't be justified in leaving finger-prints? Perhaps—"

"Only, that this is one of the few places he seems inclined to deny touching." Marchant interrupted. "Anyway, we're set."

"You are. This is the first time I've ever set the stage for a full-dress inquiry without knowing what the dickens it was all about. But I trust you, my boy. I trust you..."

Marchant looked at him suspiciously as he went out. In the doorway he turned. His manner had suddenly become graver.

Left to himself without the stimulus of having to do something, Marchant himself began to be depressed; but his reasons were different. He had overcome his compunction at bringing Keyne to justice; like the man with one idea that love had made him, he was wondering what would happen if he failed. Were the filings, the broken alibi, the finger-prints, the light, enough, even taken in conjunction with the story of the letters? In his heart he felt certain of Keyne's guilt; but he was trying to look at it as a competent defending counsel might have done, and any kind of certainty eluded him. He knew enough about McClean, or thought he did, to feel sure that the Inspector had not threatened idly. If Keyne proved to be innocent, Kay Garrow might well be accused, and the thought of it was intolerable to him.

The opening of the door interrupted his thoughts. It was Kay Garrow who entered, and she looked at him with a little smile which seemed half-affection and half-sadness.

"Still busy, Mr. Marchant?" she asked. "One's almost inclined to doubt if the death of anyone—even a famous artist—is worth so much trouble. I wonder if they'd take the same trouble for me? It tempts me to try."

Kay Garrow laughed, and if her eyes were still sad there was real amusement in her laughter.

"Why not, Mr. Marchant?" she asked. "Talking is harmless enough—on such subjects. But I'm depressing you. And this, I am sure, is your great moment—the dénouement expected from every detective. Otherwise, why this dramatic summons to the studio—to the scene of the crime—of all the members of the household who might be implicated? Including me, of course. It will be nice, at least, to have the house free of policemen... Not but what they're charming men, I think, don't you, Mr.—"

Marchant made an impatient gesture. His pent-up feelings found vent in a wave of anger.

"Really, I don't understand you, Mrs. Garrow," he said stiffly. "You're treating this as a joke. And yet, it's a matter of life and death for someone—as a few days ago whatever happened meant death to your husband. You can't think that I enjoy this part of it? Would you? Yes, I like working out what happened: pitting my brain against other people's: finding out what they meant to conceal. But now I look like succeeding—like finding out the murderer. They'll take him before a court, put him through all the solemn mummery of a sentence; take him out some early morning and hang him... And I don't blame him for doing what he did, even though it's your husband. I don't believe that I'd go through with it, only—if it isn't him—"

Kay Garrow's smile had vanished as he broke off. She was looking at him with something of tenderness in her eyes.

"If it isn't him, it's me?" she supplied. "I'm sorry, Mr. Marchant... You know, you like to take serious things seriously. At times you remind me of Richard—not that you're a bit like him really... I'm terribly grateful. Because I know really that, but for you, I might be in that position—"

"You may yet!" Marchant's nerves made him brutal. He only realised how much as he saw her wince. "No—you mustn't mind me—you mustn't believe that. I'm tired. It makes me silly—"

"That's why I do believe it," Kay Garrow told him. "And Mr. McClean's making philosophic reflections and poor jokes. That's why I know that something is really going to happen... It's been plain enough all day. What was all that fussing about this afternoon? I hope you don't mind my saying that it was simply play-acting—no, it was an orchestra playing an overture no one was listening to before the curtain rose!"

"That's just what it was!" The aptness of the simile forced a smile to Marchant's lips. "Though we were pretty busy behind the scenes. We were getting ready."

"And now, we're set for the curtain," she said reflectively. "From which the police will make their exit in a blaze of glory, the criminals— Really, it's not been the police. I know that you've done most of it. Haven't you?"

"McClean's a good chap," Marchant defended. "At the beginning he was doing everything—"

"And at the end?" Kay Garrow smiled. "He's doing the best thing. He's letting you do it... And yet, you know, Mr. Marchant, though I'm sure you've been very clever, it won't be because of that if you solve the case. It will be because you were obstinate and unreasonable; because you didn't believe that the people who had every reason for doing the murder had done it."

"I didn't believe that you'd done it," Marchant answered. "I couldn't... I wasn't sure about Amberwood at first. I'm glad that it's not—"

"Not Amberwood? I'm so glad. I'd more than a suspicion that you'd managed to tie it on to the poor boy somehow. That's what made me so—beastly. But who—?"

"That's just what I can't say at the moment," Marchant said hastily. The Inspector had extracted that promise from him. "It's only a few minutes now—"

"I'll wait. A woman's curiosity, Mr. Marchant!" Her brows puckered. "But, you know, there doesn't seem to be anyone else. I always thought that it was between the two of us."

"No. Jessica was impossible. I never thought of her... You can't seriously mean it was Alice?"

"Yes, but— You know, it couldn't be. I know that. All the more after that—that business last night. I haven't any reason for it, specially, but I know it. And, after all, Mr. Marchant, how did you know that it wasn't me?"

Marchant coloured. "The circumstances—" he began and broke off, realising that he was going to say something stupidly trite or grandiloquent. "I mean—"

"The circumstances were all against me, Mr. Marchant!" she said. "There was just one thing in my favour. Do you know what it was?"

"Me. That's why I reject Amberwood, Jessica, and even Alice. And it's a perfectly good reason, though you'd never be able, Mr. Marchant, to tell a jury so. Even though, I suspect it's the one that influences them most often. Detectives go to a lot of trouble to find excuses for people to follow their own instincts—"

Marchant rose to his feet. Though he did not know it, he was scowling; but he did know that he was uncomfortable and a little annoyed. Also rather miserable.

"It's time we went," he said curtly; then his feelings found sudden vent. "I know you think that I'm a fool, that I'm laughable. You say I'm like Garstane; you suggest all the time that I'm just playing at being a detective; that I'm vain—and funny."

"But I don't!" There was real sincerity in the cry which interrupted him. "Or if, perhaps, I do at times—"

A knock at the door ushered in Sergeant Waltham, big with the importance of momentous happenings.

"Inspector McClean asked me to let you know, sir, that they were waiting in the studio," he announced. "And you, Mrs. Garrow, please."

He made no move to follow the sergeant immediately. He even barred the doorway as Kay Garrow made her way towards it.

"If I do, sometimes"—Kay Garrow hesitated; her cheeks reddened—"I shall always be grateful to you, Mr. Marchant. Now, we must go—"

"But you weren't going to say that," he said. "If you do think me a fool sometimes—"

"If I do, I think it would be re-assuring!" she said, and pushed past him into the corridor. "Now, Mr. Marchant, the curtain's going up."

CHAPTER XXV
In the Studio

IT was, in fact, curiously like entering a theatre as the constable on duty outside pushed open the studio door of which the battered lock for an instant vividly recalled the discovery two days before. Or rather, not a theatre, but a meeting in which the audience was still awaiting the arrival of the principal speaker. The likeness struck Marchant. McClean, of course, was chairman with Kirke in support. The heads turning towards him as he moved up the room were, in a sense, a tribute to his own importance, but he derived no pleasure from the fact.

As he seated himself beside McClean, who was whispering to the Superintendent, his eyes moved over the assembled company. Apprehension, or excitement, was apparent more in the general atmosphere than in the expressions of the individual members. Jessica Garrow looked supremely happy, yet with a trace of fear. Amberwood, beside her, seemed nervous, but doggedly determined to show no signs of it. Kay Garrow, who had seated herself at the back, seemed as if her mind was completely in repose. She might have been in church.

At Keyne, Marchant could not immediately bring himself to look. He glanced first at Mrs. Campbell and the maids, and almost laughed. For Mrs. Campbell looked exactly like a plump, middle-aged aunt taken to see a play at which she knows she will be slightly shocked. The dull face of Ethel showed no more than usual; she was merely prepared to scream if necessary; but the more animated features of Alice were a chaos of emotions, in which a pleasurable thrill almost seemed to predominate.

Marchant glanced at Keyne. And Keyne was the only member of the gathering who looked just as usual. He looked like a butler who, out of deference to the wishes of his superiors, had consented to take part in something which he himself thought rather stupid and undignified. Marchant's belief was almost shaken. Then he realised that the professional mask induced by habit is the best mask of all, and realised, too, how much it might take to shatter it.

One other person was present, besides Sergeant Waltham, who reminded him oddly of a chapel sidesman. Dr. Murray sat at one side; and his kindly, humorous face looked grimmer than Marchant had ever seen it, even when Garstane was taken to the farm-house. In the great brilliantly-lit room, his face alone would have been enough to foreshadow tragedy.

McClean had finished his conference. He had risen to his feet, as if about to address a meeting; then he seemed to realise it, and sat down again, but the action had had the effect of turning all eyes towards him. It was in the hush of an absolute silence that he spoke.

"I should give you first some explanation of the unusual circumstances which have led to my asking you to come here to-night. It has not yet been officially announced, but no doubt most of you are already aware that Mr. Garrow did not commit suicide. He was murdered."

Something between a sigh and a rustle arose from the assembled men and women. As McClean said, Marchant reflected, all of them must have known the fact. It was the mere statement which disturbed them.

"Mr. Garrow died under unusual circumstances," McClean continued. "He died in this room, seated at that desk." His finger pointed, and the heads of most of his listeners turned obediently. Marchant noted rather the exceptions. Mrs. Garrow did not look; nor did Keyne. "He died here, and when the body was discovered, all doors were locked. About the time of his death, some uncertainty exists. We know that the lights were switched on in the studio at a quarter to six. Several of you even saw them go on. We do not know that Mr. Garrow was alive at that time."

McClean paused in his expositions. Across the room, Marchant noted Waltham. The sergeant was standing beside the fireplace, looking distinctly nervous. For a moment Marchant wondered why he was there before he understood. Waltham was leaning against the wall immediately beside the bell push.

"We know, too, that Mr. Garrow was murdered by some member of his own household," McClean pursued. "It could have been no one else. The method of the crime, the obvious knowledge of the household routine, the impossibility of any stranger having the means to obtain an entrance, not merely to the house, but to the studio, all prove this. Of one thing we may be sure. The murderer is in this room at this moment."

Again came the rustle; there was a feeling that everyone was looking at everyone else, and trying not to be noticed. Marchant noticed that Amberwood was more anxious. So was Alice. Keyne and Mrs. Garrow sat unmoved; Jessica looked eager. Mrs. Campbell and the maids reminded him ridiculously of members of an audience on the point of being terrified by a shot which they knew was to be fired soon. In Waltham's attitude there was something more tense. Murray looked grimmer than ever.

"I have called you together now," McClean said, after an interval, "because at this point there are certain things in which you may give assistance. Of circumstances in the house we are, I think, sufficiently informed. And I might here point out the necessity in such a case of knowing all the circumstances. Too often the police are hampered by the fact that persons who are, in fact, innocent, seek to mislead them because they are afraid or ashamed that something entirely apart from the crime may be brought to light. I wish to appeal to everyone present not to do this. If there is anything that you know, it is your duty to tell us. You may rely on us to preserve any confidences, if the matter is not material to the inquiry, or not criminal."

Marchant sighed. He could see what McClean was doing. He was trying to work up his hearers into a state of suspense. Only it was quite clear that he was not succeeding with Keyne. The butler looked, if anything, a little more interested, a little less inclined to treat the whole thing as a childish game than when McClean had first risen. But there was nothing more. A wave of anxiety came over Marchant. Suppose, after all, he had been mistaken. Suppose, not Keyne, but Kay Garrow were to break down under this curious ordeal. He put the thought from him, and forced himself to listen to what McClean was saying.

"...resolves itself into a question of when Mr. Garrow met his death," he heard. "A variety of motives are possible. Love, hatred, gain, revenge—" McClean paused. "One of these, no doubt, led to this murder. For the moment we will neglect them. The question resolves itself into one of time, and into this the switching on of the lights in this room at a quarter to six—"

Darkness suddenly overwhelmed them. The extinction of the almost blinding arc-lights seemed to make a blackness more absolute than the pit; though, as his eyes became accustomed to it, Marchant could make out the bars across the windows.

A woman screamed. There was the rattle of chairs and feet on the parquet as McClean's audience rose with one accord. Marchant fancied the scream had come from the cook, just worked up to the proper pitch of excitement. He had no doubt that the owner of the next voice was Alice.

"I can't bear it—I can't bear it!" she cried. "Something touched me! He's here! I tell you! he's here! Look! By the desk! Something moved!"

A match flared. Keyne, imperturbably, was holding it over his head, illuminating the group of white faces.

"There, there, my dear!" Marchant heard Mrs. Campbell say. "It's nothing. Why—"

McClean's voice came commandingly, breaking in on her outburst, and silencing her.

"There's no need for alarm!" he said. "It's simply that something has gone wrong with the lights... I imagine that a fuse has blown. We shall have it right in a minute."

The tumult which had been growing subsided. Keyne's match had flickered out, but in the darkness the dim figures were just visible; some standing, some sitting.

"I hope that the ladies have not been frightened," McClean spoke again. "We will get things put right at once... Mr. Keyne—no doubt you could help us. Where is the fuse box? Could you go with Sergeant Waltham and renew the fuse?"

Keyne seemed to hesitate, but when he replied his voice was still perfectly controlled.

"The fuse box, sir, is in the servants' quarters. I can show the sergeant where it is, sir, but I regret to say that I know nothing about electricity. If you were to call Parsons, sir, I have no doubt that he would be able—"

With the suddenness of an explosion, the lights came on. They blinked at each other foolishly; one of the maids tittered in nervous relief.

"Sit down, please!" McClean asked, and waited until quiet was restored. "As I was saying, an essential point in the matter of Mr. Garrow's murder was the switching on of the light at quarter to six. We have reached the conclusion that, in fact, this was not done from inside the locked room at all. The lights were turned on—as they have just been turned on—from outside the room altogether!"

McClean's tone was sinister. This time the movement of surprise was general enough. Even Kay Garrow, Marchant saw, had changed her position. Now she was sitting there, leaning forward eagerly, as though expecting what was to come next. Amberwood's expression conveyed nothing but utter bewilderment. Marchant looked at Keyne.

The butler sat there, in almost exactly the same position as when the lights had gone out. Even when he had struck the match he had stood up firm and unshaken in the startled gathering. Now he was changed. Suddenly his face had gone grey; his fingers moved nervously. He was staring at McClean as if he were a prisoner looking at the man who tortured him.

"I ask you only to witness," McClean said coolly, "that it is possible to switch on and off the lights of a room without coming inside it... But the principal point upon which I wished to have your evidence was something entirely different."

From the table beside him he reached for the sheet of paper which lay there, holding it for a minute with its back towards the onlookers. There was a shuddering gasp as the realisation came to them that the irregular dark stain on its whiteness was blood.

"This paper," McClean announced, "was found under the head of Mr. Garrow not long after he died. It must have been there when he was shot. Only a little while before, he had been working at it. He had been drawing a woman's face... Death came too soon for him to finish it. Yet just before his death, he had been drawing this woman. We believe that the circumstance may have some bearing upon his death. For this reason, identification is necessary. You have lived in the same house as the dead man. Many of his friends and acquaintances, most of those with whom he has come into contact must be known to you. That is the reason I produce this drawing to you now. Is there anyone here who knows who this woman is, or was?"

With an abrupt movement he turned the pastel towards them. The light shone full upon it. Marchant had seen it before; but then he had noticed little besides the resemblance to Amberwood. It was only now that a thrill passed through him as he saw the tragedy which the face showed. There was a craning of necks to see. Then Jessica Garrow jumped to her feet.

"It's—it's like—!" she cried, and stopped, as if frightened at the sound of her own voice.

All eyes had turned towards her. Only Marchant, and those who had been watching Keyne saw that he, too, had risen.

He stood there, deathly pale and swaying slightly, with one hand on his heart. But Marchant was surprised at the expression on his face. For, instead of the guilt of the convicted murderer, he saw absolute happiness. Under his deathly pallor, Keyne was smiling, smiling as though he saw again someone whom he had known and loved.

The others had realised that he was on his feet. Now, they too were looking at him. Keyne was unconscious of everything but the portrait. He did not even see the man who held it. Then he swayed more violently. A single repeated word came from his lips.

Even before he fell, Dr. Murray had dashed forward to catch him. There was a moment's dead silence. Then a hysterical scream from one of the maids. Almost unconsciously, Marchant noted with surprise that it was the irreproachable Ethel. McClean had started forward.

"Waltham, get them out!" he snapped. "Please, please leave us, ladies and gentlemen. What there is to do—"

Kirke and the sergeant were shepherding the frightened onlookers towards the doorway. Marchant moved over to where the still body of the butler lay with the doctor bending over it, and McClean joined him.

For a moment they stood in silence. Murray looked up. His smile was grimmer than ever.

"A very successful experiment, Inspector!" he approved. "Very successful... Yes, he's dead—and, mark you, he died happily. Maybe that's more than you and I will do—and it's better than the execution shed on a winter morning... Now, you may call me a fool, Inspector, when it comes to estimating the time of death. But his heart was weak, as I told him—and, you see, it was as weak as I told you!"

"I hoped for it," McClean said quietly. "Yes, I knew that his heart was weak. And, isn't his dying now the best thing all round? You see, there'll be an inquest, but no trial. We can let them off lightly—Amberwood and the girl. And, as the doctor says, it's better this way."

Marchant looked down on the dead face. Even the final spasm which had deprived him of life had not wiped the smile from Keyne's face.

"Yes, it's best," he agreed. "I hated it... He didn't deserve it. One couldn't blame him—"

"But the law is the law," McClean said sternly. "And he'd broken it... Lord knows, I've come near enough to doing it myself to-night. If it were known—"

"It won't be," Murray said quietly. "Well, he was a decent body as I knew him... There's something here that may interest you, Inspector."

His hand was in the breast pocket of the dead butler. Marchant recognised instantly the handful of envelopes which came first. They were the same as those of the anonymous letters which had so mysteriously appeared on the studio floor. A bulkier packet followed them. McClean inspected them in silence; then he read out the address on the one which he had last received.

"'To Inspector McClean, Scotland Yard'." He paused. "Well—I'd almost expected it. There's nothing that we can do, doctor?"

"Nothing, but tell the coroner!" Murray answered. "You may send a bobby to me. He'll help lay him somewhere."

McClean nodded to Waltham, indicating the doctor. Kirke had rejoined them. The Inspector pointed towards the table.

CHAPTER XXVI
Keyne's Story

THE paper crackled and tore as McClean's finger found the flap. Drawing out a pad of closely written sheets, he glanced at the first line or two and nodded; then he glanced at the end. His eyebrows rose.

"He even got witnesses to his signature," he commented. "Alice and the cook. Must have said it was a will, or something... Poor devil."

The other two were silent as he glanced rapidly through the sheets. Once or twice again he nodded. Then he flipped the last page over and looked up.

"Full confession," he said. "It was pretty well as you said, Marchant. But it clears up one or two points. I'll read it."

He rustled the sheets and cleared his throat almost like a nervous after-dinner speaker. Then he read:

"I am writing this in the fear that another may suffer for the act of justice which I have performed. I killed James Garrow. I am glad that I killed him. I regret only that his death was so merciful, and that he suffered so little. For Garrow deserved to die; he was fated to die; my sole regret is that he had lived so long to bring upon others such misery as he had brought on me.

"People will say that I am mad. I am not mad. For twenty years I have lived the life of a sane, normal man. And for twenty years I have meant to kill him as soon as the chance offered. That it would be so I was always sure. I had planned out many ways in which it might be done; at the end I delayed it. For I wanted to cause him the greatest suffering; I wanted his life to be ruined first as mine has been. But the arrival of Mr. Marchant hurried me. In the final result, I could do no more than shoot him. I doubt if he even knew why he died. For he had forgotten. Of course he had forgotten. That he had caused the death of my wife and should have ruined my life was nothing to him. I had meant to tell him. I had tried for some weeks to frighten him; to make him realise that his death was coming. But at the last he did not know me.

"I was a young man when Garrow first came to lodge with us. The business which I had taken over from my father had been neglected, but I worked hard. I married. For the sake of my wife I worked harder. Things were improving. In one year—two years, I should have succeeded. It was hard for my wife; more, perhaps than she could endure. I do not blame her. I asked too much. Then Garrow came.

"He was not Garrow then. Which was his real name I have never learnt. I suspect, now, that he had already had some reason for changing his name, at least for the time. It was afterwards a source of satisfaction to me, for it made it less likely that I should be discovered. At the time I did not know. And he deceived me. I thought him a young, attractive man, like myself working his way up in a world which had not been too favourable to him. So I consented. Yet I had always hated the idea of letting lodgings. I could not bear the thought of having my wife waiting on other men. She did not mind. Anything was better, she said, than being so poor, and things would be better soon, if we could get through the bad patch.

"It was a bad patch. But, little by little, things were straightening out. Then I had what I thought was luck. An uncle whom I had never seen died and left me fifty pounds. It came at the right time, when things were almost desperate and yet could be made right. When I took back the money, it seemed to me that my troubles were over. Of course, it still meant hard work. I explained to my wife that evening all that we should have to do, how by paying off the bills and putting a little more money into the business a year or two would see us on our feet. I remember now that she was not so pleased as I had expected. But I was too busy and worried to think about it, and during the daytime I hardly saw her. Or Garrow. For Garrow, or Frankland, was supposed to be busy as I was. I think I admired him because he still stuck to his painting. In his free time he seemed always painting or drawing. It fascinated me. Perhaps it also fascinated Anne; but he was a handsome man, and I was not at my best.

"The day after I had drawn the money I had to go away. I was away all day. There was just the apprentice in the shop. I came back that evening. The house was dark. I was surprised, but I did not understand. How could I understand? It was not until I turned the light on that I found her letter.

"She need not have written so cruelly. I have realised since that she hated what she was doing; that she had been driven beyond her endurance. Garrow persuaded her, and he had spent the time persuading her, sympathising with her, doing little things for her that I had put into my business. I had scarcely noticed but looking back I could see it. And he was a romantic figure, the handsome young artist destined for great things. I could offer her only years of work in Aspramont buildings. I do not blame her for going. For she had gone off with him, and taken the money. Of course, it was the money that he wanted.

"I think that I was nearly mad then. I hardly remember what happened. Somehow I must have balanced things up; I think the sale of the business brought in enough to cover most of the debts. But I hardly know. I finished things quickly. I had only a pound or two in my pocket, but I set off, looking for them. I begged, I starved, sometimes I had to work to get money so that I could look for them. But I failed. It was nearly a year later that I heard. My wife had come back to Bristol. She had died there, in the workhouse. Of Garrow I heard nothing.

"I did not go back to Bristol. For now it was Garrow I was looking for, and I meant to kill him. Then I should have killed him on sight and hung for it cheerfully. But that was years ago. Since then, I have come to realise that vengeance would not be complete if I myself paid the penalty. I have grown more cunning. I meant that Garrow should die; but I did not mean to die myself for killing him.

"It does not matter how I spent the next few years. I must have wandered over most of England, still looking for him. But it was hopeless. I know now that he was abroad. Then the war came. I was starving, but I had become used to that. Somehow I felt that I should find Garrow in the army. Or I might be killed. I enlisted almost at the beginning. But I did not find him. People said that I was brave; that I never lost my head. Why should I not have been? For all that horror occupied only a subordinate part in my mind. It seemed as if a little enclosure in my brain functioned by itself automatically, killing Germans, doing the right things, later even giving commands. It was a separate part of me—a self-controlled machine. But the rest of my mind was for Garrow.

"The war ended. Still I had not found him. And I had to live. I knew nothing about being in service, but the job was offered to me and I took it. I did well at it; for always that little corner of my mind was working by itself. I did not have to worry about things. My life was being lived for me, and the great bulk of my mind was always on how I might find Garrow; how I should kill him; what I should do to him first. I sought for him in every way I could; but it was quite by accident that I found him. I can still see the picture in the paper which told me that Frankland had become Garrow. For a long time I carried it with me.

"It seemed as though heaven was helping me at last; was rewarding me for my patience and belief. I was ill with joy. Then the doctor first told me that my heart was weak. I should live for years, but it would be well to avoid any over-excitement. He smiled as he said it, I remember. He did not think that my life as a butler was liable to produce what he warned me against. But he did not understand. All the time I was excited, except in that little corner of my mind which was doing my work as a butler. Time went on. But I saw that I had to be careful. I was.

"There was no hurry now. I knew where Garrow was, and I knew that fate would give me the opportunity. I was certain of it, as about a proved fact. There was never the least doubt in my mind. Garrow was mine. There was pleasure in the anticipation. I was in no hurry. No doubt I should have made the opportunity for myself, but I did not need to. It was fated that it should be given to me. Garrow needed a butler and I applied. Of course I was sure that I should be accepted. I had to be.

"As soon as I came here I started. I had changed, of course. And he had seen so little of me; I had been so tiny a part of his scheme of things when he had known me. There was not the faintest possibility of his knowing me as Hearnes. I started to work. It was my intention that he should suffer as I had suffered before his death atoned for Anne's. But I was often tempted. For years, if Garrow had but known it, he has been within an inch of death every day.

"And I realised after a little while that I was sure to fail. It was easy, of course, given my opportunity as a butler, to increase the breach between Mrs. Garrow and himself. I was sorry for her; but she did not love him. Like Anne, she had been fascinated by him; but she had not loved him long. No woman could. Yet in many little ways I troubled him, never showing that it was I who was responsible. Had Garrow been an ordinary man, he might have felt some of the pangs that I had felt; but he was not. After a time, as I say, I knew that I was going to fail. For do what I would, Garrow could not feel things as I felt them. I had to alter my plans. It had worried me that Garrow should not know how close death was to him; should not shiver with the fear of it. But I had seen no way of letting him know. Then I thought of the letters.

"I was very careful about them. I do not know how much the police learnt, but I did my best, posting them in different places as much as I could. The paper I knew could not be traced. I reminded him of what had happened; I told him that I was going to kill him. For a little while, I think, he did not believe it. I was disappointed. Then he grew more and more irritable. He worked less. I was glad, because I could tell that he knew.

"For a long time I had settled upon the studio as the place where he should die. It was most fitting. For his painting had attracted my wife, and had killed her; it had raised him to fame. I planned to do it while he was painting. But I had to wait. It was only occasionally that he gave the key to anyone. Finally I secured a mould of it and set to work. It was a difficult key. It took a long time. And I could do it only in odd moments, sometimes in my bedroom, sometimes in the pantry, when I was sure that the noise of the file would not be heard. But at last it was ready.

"I should have liked to wait longer. For my schemes were at last succeeding. With his wife Garrow was quarrelling openly; it could only be a matter of time before she left him. Miss Jessica and Mr. Amberwood being fond of each other was a stroke of luck; for it meant that he quarrelled with his daughter too. I was sorry for them. My consolation was that it was necessary; that they would soon be free of him.

"His letter to Mr. Marchant hurried me. I noticed the address when I saw it on the table waiting to be posted, and I remembered the name. I was not sure about the letters. Clever as I had been, perhaps I had said something which would be enough to put him on my track, with Garrow to help him. If Garrow was dead I was not even much afraid of the letters. They could not connect me with Hearnes. It was so long ago. When Mr. Marchant's wire came, I knew that the time had come to act. I had to hurry more than I should have wished.

"The gun was not chosen because it was Mrs. Garrow's, but simply because it was a gun to which Garrow might have had access. For, in the end, I planned that it should seem like suicide. I do not know even now why the police did not accept it as such. I made a mistake somehow, but I do not know what it was. The room was locked; no one could get inside without a key. I had one. Garrow had been worried; everything would point to suicide. But, it seems, I overlooked something.

"After all, it was very easy. During the afternoon, at times when it would not be noticed, I had put the kitchen clock on for five minutes. It was not much, but it was enough. You will understand that, as I had arranged it, it would not take long. It was simply a matter of going along the lounge, turning the key, going in and shooting him. It did not take long. I was careful that people should notice in the drawing-room and kitchen what the times were. The light was an inspiration. I had thought of it years ago, but had not seen how I could make use of it. Now, it fitted in. Because, though I had intended it to look like suicide, there was always the possibility that the police might see the truth. For that reason I arranged the alibi; postponed Mr. Marchant's arrival; and, finally, put the lights on. Perhaps that has puzzled you. Before going to kill Garrow, I had taken out the fuse through which the studio current ran. The fuse box was in my pantry. It was in my pocket when I went into the drawing-room with tea. Having killed Garrow, I had only to press the switches as I left the room; then, at any time I liked, the lights would go on if I replaced the fuse. And people would think, either that Garrow was alive then, or that someone was in the studio at a time I could not have been.

"I was very calm when the moment came. If anyone had seen me walking up the lounge I do not think they would have thought anything was wrong. The pistol was in my pocket. I stopped outside the door to look through the keyhole. Garrow was at the mantelpiece, putting something into a recess, and I knew what it was. I recognised the envelopes of the anonymous letters I had sent him. That seemed to simplify things. I waited till he sat down; then I turned the key and went in.

"He was surprised to see me. I think that he must have realised that somehow I had come in through the locked door, and it puzzled him. I closed the door behind me and walked straight up to him. He didn't quite know what to make of it. The gun was in my hip pocket and my hand was on it. As soon as I got close enough, I drew it out, put it to his face and pulled the trigger, being careful to choose the right side of the face.

"There was less noise than I had expected, and the studio is sound-proof. He grunted and fell forward. I wiped the handle of the gun carefully and put it on the floor under his hand. Then I saw the letters, or some of them. I took them. I went out, locking the door.

"It was over. And yet, somehow it had not given me the pleasure I had hoped. For Garrow had not known me. I had not been able to tell him. And what was to have been a culminating act of vengeance had in the end turned out to be little more than an act of self-preservation. I felt oddly disappointed, and my life seemed empty. I suppose one cannot have an ambition for thirty years and realise it without regretting its absence. But I went back. And, later, I put in the fuse, and went into the kitchen to be sure that the others saw it.

"And I began to be doubtful. Even then, I had the feeling that there was something wrong. If the body were found too soon, the doctor might be able to say definitely at what time he died. Mr. Marchant came while I was thinking about it. It was then that I decided about the telephone and the cars. Actually, that was done after the body was found. Instead of calling Parsons at once, I first made sure that calling him would do no good.

"Still, there was something wrong. Mr. Marchant noticed it. And I was bothered about the letters in the recess. Those which I had taken were not all—were not even the most important ones. That night I made an attempt to recover them, and was nearly caught. But I got up the stairs to the top corridor, and had reached the door of my room as Mrs. Campbell came out. Of course she thought I had just done the same.

"There is not much more to tell. But things did not work out as I had hoped. The police should have thought it suicide; but they did not. And then I saw that all the things I had been doing against Garrow were going to count as evidence against the others. I had no wish that anyone else should suffer for what I did. It was not murder. It was justice. But I could not let anyone else be punished for it. I had to put the letters in the studio for the sergeant to find. It was easy. I had only to slip down the stairs near the studio.

"It is all over. I hope that this will never be read, but I do not greatly care. I am tired. And my heart has been troublesome. I do not think I could have got through it, but Dr. Murray saw me a few months ago, and gave me some stuff to take. But, most of all, I am tired. I should not, after all, be sorry to die. My life ended when Garrow fell down on the desk. Now I do not care. It seems as though the bigger part of my brain which has wanted Garrow so long is empty.

"But I am not mad. Let no one think I am mad. And I am no murderer. I have simply performed an act of justice such as anyone might condone.

"I do not know how to sign this. First I shall write my real name. It will seem strange after all these years. Then I shall sign as Keyne. I suppose I had better get the signature witnessed. I am tired."

CHAPTER XXVII
The Case is Completed

MARCHANT was alone in the morning room when McClean ran him to earth two hours later. For a man who had just successfully solved a problem which had been troubling him he did not look very cheerful. But the Inspector smiled happily.

"The worst is over," he announced. "I've just broken the news to Amberwood. He took it better than I could have hoped. He's a perfect fool, but there's some stuff in that young man, you know... I left Pair of Love-birds No. 1 weeping on each other's shoulders in the drawing-room. So they'll be O.K."

"You think so?" Marchant frowned. "It seems a ghastly shame... You wouldn't think that they'd be able to forget that—"

"When you're a little older, my boy, you'll be surprised what people can forget when they're in love. Besides, you've got to take into account the nature of the people concerned. Amberwood—one can't get used to calling him Hearnes—Amberwood has practically no imagination. Jessica Garrow is no longer interested in anything in the world except Amberwood. Quite providential. If they have a family, of course she'll feel the same about them, or it, but at the moment it's all Peter... I'm not sure that I could stand anything so damnably possessive myself, but it's all for the best."

"And Mrs. Garrow?" Marchant stared at the fire. "I suppose that everything's all right for her, too?"

"Well, it's better than it was. She's free of Garrow. In fact, from that point of view, all this is the best thing that could have happened. She's still a young and attractive woman... No doubt she may think that her life is ended, but she won't copy Garstane's example by jumping over a cliff on that account. And she'll get over it." McClean sighed. "Bless you, the human race is tougher than one thinks, and with greater powers of recuperation. One can get over anything if one has time and tries hard enough. Besides, she is a woman, and they're even tougher, in their own way, than we are. All she needs now is someone to console her. It's a pity, almost, that Garstane at the moment is principally conscious of the fact he's a headache. Though he's hardly her class. Still—"

"Hang it, her husband's only just dead!" Marchant exploded angrily. Even Garstane couldn't speak now—"

"Garstane most certainly could—if he could speak at all. For him the divine passion obscures all details of that kind. So he actually reaches the very point that anyone else does who looks at it sensibly. Kay Garrow's husband isn't recently dead—for her. He died a long time ago. I gather about six months after their marriage at most. Since then, a high, inconvenient sense of duty has made her stick to him; noble principles prevented her from divorcing him; decency might prevent her from marrying again for a bit—say a year. But it's no use pretending that, from her point of view, Garrow has for the past year or so been any more than a thorn in the flesh. And she doesn't kid herself on that point, which is one advantage. So, it's all providential. It might have been better if Garrow had been drowned at birth; but then the world would have lost some paintings which—I read the Sunday newspapers—are among the greatest masterpieces of our time. Against a little human misery you have to weigh them. It's a matter of taste. No, all has been for the best. Even Hearnes died conveniently."

"Mac, you're a heartless swine!" In spite of himself, Marchant smiled. "Your Browningesque philosophy is simply absurd. In this business there have been two deaths, one attempted suicide, a murder, and Lord knows how many lives messed up! And you say: 'Splendid! All for the best! God's in his heaven, all's right with the world!'"

"If you knew your Browning properly, you'd realise that the optimism with which he has been credited isn't so silly as it's been made out to be... Yes. Suppose I do say it? Isn't that better than moaning like a sick cat over what can't he helped?" McClean was even heated. "There's no sense in whining about these things. When the storm's over, you gather the wreckage and start repairs. And above all, in spite of all its idiocy, you keep a general belief in something essentially decent in the bulk of human nature."

Marchant looked at the Inspector with affection. Then he passed his hand over his eyes wearily.

"Sorry, Mac," he apologised. "I'm feeling rather done up. And this business—hasn't been like an ordinary case for me."

"Nor for me... You know, you probably think life at the C.I.D. is one whirl of thrills and excitement. Most of it's about as interesting as finding out who pinched pennies out of boxes for the blind in suburban public-houses... But I digress. I came to see you because at this point it is expedient that the brilliant young detective should tell the mere policeman how it was done. In other words, I'd like to know something about the case I'm in charge of. It's just as well, you know."

"Sit down. I'll expound!" he said. "Though, as I think that I've told you everything and Keyne himself told about the light there's precious little to say... Well, you know, it really was the blister that put me on to it!"

McClean's eyebrows rose a little as he looked at Marchant over the match which he was just applying to his pipe.

"Yes, it was... You see, I went out for a walk to cool my heated brow, get things straightened out, and find an inspiration if possible. I couldn't forget it. So then I remembered how I'd got it, and I realised that from my point of view the first sign of anything wrong was that I'd had to walk from the station. Why had I had to walk? Because, you see, supposing Garrow had really forgotten to order the car, long before I arrived he'd have been raising Cain and asking where I was. He didn't. And that made me think that perhaps he'd been dead much longer than we thought—so long that he'd hardly noticed that I wasn't on time, and certainly hadn't had time to complain about it.

"That was one thing. Another followed from it. If he had not forgotten, he had told someone to do it, and they had not only not done so, but denied all knowledge of it. Almost certainly the person who had failed to order the car for me was the murderer, because anyone else who'd made a mistake would probably have admitted it. The murderer couldn't, because an essential part of his scheme was that I should arrive late. Then, it looked as though the murder was connected with my arrival. And it seemed fairly certain that my arrival was connected with the anonymous letters. I thought at first that Garrow had wanted me to do some kind of dirty business in the way of spying on his wife; but when I came to think that over I could see that I'd done him an injustice. If he'd wanted that done, he'd have known I wasn't the person to do it. The letters indicated that Garrow's past, and the only piece of Garrow's past which was at all handy, seemed to be Bristol. I went there. As you say, I did a piece of honest police work which, actually, the Bristol police could have done a lot better. The fact was that I needed the change, and to get out of the house."

"Thanks for the compliment to the force," McClean murmured, half bowing where he sat. "Any more small bouquets—?"

"Don't be an ass. I'm not denying that you've actually done the bulk of the real work in this case... At that time, I think my mind was running on Amberwood, simply because there was obviously something fishy about him. You see, it really lay between Amberwood and Keyne, as the two most likely people for Garrow to give the order to. It might have been one of the maids or Parsons, but it was less likely. I plumped for Amberwood, and I ought to have known better. Because, of course, several people had seen Garrow stop and speak to Keyne as he went to the studio. It was hitting you in the eye, really, that he was ordering the car then.

"Somehow, when I saw Amberwood in Bristol it altered things. I didn't know why he was there, but it seemed so unlikely that he would be if he was the murderer. And on the way home, it occurred to me that my blister, the putting out of action of cars and telephones, and the switching on of the lights which everyone seemed to have noticed, all pointed to one thing. The murderer wanted us to think that the crime had been committed much later than it had been. Why? Because, during the time after the switching on of the lights, he had a perfect alibi.

"Amberwood hadn't. His alibi all the evening was the rocky one, produced reluctantly, that he had been sitting—with someone who might very well lie to shield him—in a place conveniently situated for committing the crime. Jessica Garrow's story was the same. Mrs. Garrow's story was worse. Garstane was impossible. That brought us to the kitchen staff, and besides, the light took us there too. You see, pondering over what little I know on the subject of electricity, I'd remembered being very impressed when an electrician had removed the fuse in my boyhood's home without turning off the main switch. One can, of course, because it's made of pot. You've only got to exercise very moderate care, and you're absolutely safe. Then it occurred to me that generally there is one fuse for each room, or two rooms more often; but there were a lot of lights in the studio. So, if the fuse were removed, the lights switched on, and the fuse replaced when needed the desired results would be obtained.

"But, servants being what they are, one can't just blow into a kitchen, even in your own home, and start removing fuses without some kind of an excuse. And no one had done it. So the person who removed the fuse was one of the people who was normally there—or possibly Parsons. I managed to rule Parsons out. Alice was, temporarily, a nuisance, but she was dealt with. That left Keyne, Mrs. Campbell, and Ethel. Now Mrs. Campbell had a splendid alibi which might have made me worry about her if it had been in the least likely that Garrow would have given her the order about the car. It wasn't. As a mere matter of ingenuity, I'd have liked to have put it on to Ethel—besides, she's such an aggravating face. But her alibi, unless one suspected the servants of being in league, really was unshakable.

"Keyne was left. But his alibi seemed pretty firm. Then I remembered that tea had been early; and that his alibi depended on two different clocks. Besides, Keyne was about the right age. He generally took his day off on Thursdays, and he had a week's holiday—"

"And I forgot it!" he exclaimed. "It just shows what a state I've got into. Darn it, that's a question even a fool of a policeman should have asked!"

"But, in fact, I only remembered this morning after I left you," Marchant admitted. "As you say, this case didn't give one time to think... But once one had shaken his alibi, Keyne seemed as likely as anyone. He was the right age, if you thought that it was someone of Garrow's own generation. He was a man, if you accepted my argument from the letters. And he was in a position to do all the things that the murderer and writer of the letters had done. No doubt he planted Garstane's case for the maid to find. No doubt in a dozen ways he could manage things to increase Garrow's suspicions of his wife. He was the most normal person for the order for the car to have been given to. And he was so magnificently unobtrusive.

"He could have done that business in the studio when the sergeant nearly caught him—of course, we all could. Then, finally, when we searched this afternoon, we found the filings from the key. That, and not putting Garrow's hand on the gun, were the only things in which he'd been careless."

"On the porcelain of the fuse. He never thought that anyone would tumble to it; besides, he wanted to get out quickly so as to call attention to the light. So he didn't wear a glove, and he didn't wipe it. That was another mistake, of course. And then, you see, he denied all knowledge of electrical matters. That made it certain that he hadn't handled the fuse innocently... I think we'd have got him anyhow, without—"

Marchant broke off. He did not like to think of the scene in the studio, but McClean was unruffled.

"That, I repeat, was all for the best," he said. "I wouldn't have had it otherwise... You've forgotten one thing. You noticed the fact that the gun was clean. Both Kirke and Murray missed that. And that started the whole show. That was the rock on which he really split. And then, having shown it was a murder, you scared Kirke badly, so that, instead of charging Mrs. Garrow he sent for us."

"I was rude to Kirke," Marchant admitted with a shade of regret. "He asked for it, but I meant to apologise... Well!" He rose a little wearily. "I suppose we'll be wanted for the two inquests. Then we can go away..."

His voice faltered and broke off. McClean eyed him with sympathy, but when he spoke he might have intended to be provoking. In fact, that was his intention.

"Yes, go away," he said heartily. "Leaving them all to sort things out as best they can. Anyway, Amberwood and Jessica will be well away. And they seem fond of Mrs. Garrow. She'll probably get help from them. Poor woman... What a brute Garrow was—even in that will."

Marchant nodded thoughtfully. McClean noted with satisfaction the dawning of resolution in his face.

"By all means," McClean assented. "Oh!... I don't know if you'd object to telling Mrs. Garrow about the will? It's a difficult business, and you've had more to do with her than I have. If you'd rather not, Norris will do it... She was in the library."

Marchant did not notice the Inspector's benevolent smile as he turned to go. He had other things to think about, and a problem which made a murder mystery seem like child's play.

Mrs. Garrow was still in the library. Her eyes brightened as she rose to meet him. He noticed that she had been crying.

"I suppose that I should congratulate you, Mr. Marchant," she greeted him, "but—but—it was terrible, wasn't it? Poor Keyne. I liked him."

"It was terrible," Marchant assented. "McClean says it was all for the best. I suppose in a way it was... But I don't think I could have faced it myself only— We had to. We weren't sure of a conviction. And—"

"And if he wasn't guilty, I was?" Kay Garrow smiled. "Perhaps I shouldn't have minded. No, I don't mean that. I'm grateful, really, awfully grateful. And I know that you've done everything. But it seems so—so hopeless."

Marchant thought of the information regarding the will which he had to convey to her and his heart sank. He blundered straight into it.

"Inspector McClean sent me," he said. "He wanted me to tell you about the will. Norris told us—"

"And Norris told me." Kay Garrow smiled. "No, I'm not heartbroken that I've not got more of—of that money. And I've plenty to live on without that magnificent allowance... It was kind of you to come. I suppose you'll be thinking of going soon?"

"There's the inquest," Marchant began. Then he was silent, and for a space neither of them spoke. He was not looking at her face, but his downcast eyes took in the two ridiculously tiny shoes and the slender ankles. He looked up abruptly. That wasn't why I came anyhow," he said. "I wanted to see you."

"Kay," Marchant began, and the use of the familiar name passed unquestioned. "Kay—I love you. You'll think I'm mad to say it now. But I couldn't go away without—without—"

She did not answer as he paused. She was only looking at him, and what the look in her eyes meant he could not determine. The doubt tortured him.

"Kay, I love you. I couldn't bear it when— You must have thought me a fearful fool at times, and I know I was brutal. Almost from the time I met you—"

"I want to marry you—to take you away!" Marchant blurted out. "Let's leave this place—let's try to forget all that's happened. I'll never touch another case as long as I live."

"I don't want to forget—all." The words came tremulously. "But—but you can't want me—"

In a moment his arms were about her. For an instant she resisted him, and there was fear in her eyes.

Suddenly she yielded. Marchant felt an arm steal round his neck, and their lips met.

The feet of Inspector McClean scarcely came up to that legendary standard associated with the constabulary, yet he had managed to make quite a lot of noise coming down the corridor. Even some difficulty with the door handle was not sufficient, and he had to cough twice before either of them condescended to notice his existence. Kay Garrow smiled at him radiantly; and he met Marchant's accusing eye with aplomb.

"My congratulations," he said dryly. "I'm awfully sorry to break in on you like that. I suppose one gets into the habit of being stealthy as a detective... I forgot my pipe."

"Why, so I was!" McClean exclaimed with bland innocence. "Silly of me to forget that... Anyhow, I like to see my cases settled tidily."

"That includes us?" Kay Garrow laughed. "I'd no idea police duties were so irksome, Inspector."

"He's going to say that we're a well-matched pair," Marchant broke in. "And he means by that that I'm a fool and you aren't."

"We're both fools, perhaps," Kay Garrow's smile was a little wistful. "But perhaps the happier—"

"Nor that," McClean seemed to be searching for a suitable phrase. He found it, and turned towards the door. "I should say your qualities are sufficiently opposite to be complementary!" he said over his shoulder.

Shamelessly taking his pipe from his pocket, Inspector McClean closed the door behind him.

THE END

MAX DALMAN

THE HIDDEN LIGHT

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1937 This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025 Version Date: 2025-06-28 Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright. Click here for more books by this author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I Death in the Studio

CHAPTER II Marchant Arrives

CHAPTER III What a Gun Told

CHAPTER IV Interview With a Lady

CHAPTER V Enter the Police

CHAPTER VI An Accusation

CHAPTER VII A Struggle in the Dark

CHAPTER VIII Scotland Yard Takes Charge

CHAPTER IX Complications

CHAPTER X On the Cliffs

CHAPTER XI A Confession

CHAPTER XII Amberwood Speaks Out

CHAPTER XIII Letters and a Warning

CHAPTER XIV Marchant is Inspired

General Notes.

CHAPTER XV Marchant Makes a Discovery

CHAPTER XVI The Letters

CHAPTER XVII Amberwood's Name

CHAPTER XVIII The Will

CHAPTER XIX A New Suspect

CHAPTER XX Alice Explains

CHAPTER XXI The Lady of the Portrait

CHAPTER XXII Amberwood's Return

CHAPTER XXIII An Alibi Shaken

CHAPTER XXIV The Stage is Set

CHAPTER XXV In the Studio

CHAPTER XXVI Keyne's Story

CHAPTER XXVII The Case is Completed