Three Strangers

Roy Glashan's Library
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MAX DALMAN

THREE STRANGERS

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.

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"Three Strangers" is a vintage British detective novel set in the quiet English countryside—but don't let the setting fool you.

On the day of a man named James Remshaw's execution, three mysterious strangers arrive in the small Sussex village of Malford Bishop and make their way to Malford Manor, home to Theodore Hardwick and his daughter, Elizabeth. Each of these visitors has a hidden agenda....

Chapter I. Three Strangers from Town
Chapter II. An Offer and a Threat
Chapter III. Mr. Buckfast is Startled
Chapter IV. A Meeting of Rivals
Chapter V. Kinoulton Speaks Out
Chapter VI. A Night Alarm
Chapter VII. Moreton Takes a Scalp
Chapter VIII. The Man with the Scar
Chapter IX. A Step Forward
Chapter X. Poldron Calls Again
Chapter XI. A Tragic Discovery
Chapter XII. Kinoulton Defends Himself
Chapter XIII. Complications
Chapter XIV. An Identification
Chapter XV. An Attack and a Rescue
Chapter XVI. Elizabeth Apologizes
Chapter XVII. The Shot from the Shrubbery
Chapter XVIII. A Chase in the Dark
Chapter XIX. A Flight and a Meeting
Chapter XX. Kinoulton Explains
Chapter XXI. A Little Talk with Poldron
Chapter XXII. Enter Mr. Hardwick
Chapter XXIII. A Telephone Call
Chapter XXIV. Poldron is Enlightened
Chapter XXV. McCulley Gives Advice

CHAPTER I
Three Strangers from Town

OF Malford Bishop's two hundred inhabitants, only Theodore Hardwick was much disturbed when James Remshaw took his last walk to the scaffold one grey March morning. Even his indignant letter to The Times was partly habit. Every execution in ten years had similarly inspired him, and subeditors who had once condensed his effusions to five-line paragraphs had long since ceased to trouble. It was not that she shared his views, but the merest feminine curiosity which made Elizabeth halt outside the shop to search for her father's letter in the paper which she had just bought. A gust of wind made the flimsy sheets resist her obstinately, but she had just found the page when a violent collision almost threw her from her feet. Extricating herself from the voluminous folds of the newspaper, she looked up indignantly, and the sight of the stranger who had caused the collision gave her a mild shock of surprise.

The immaculate middle-aged gentleman whose hurried progress had been interrupted, smacked of the town from the crown of his neat bowler hat to his aggressively shiny shoes. In the little Sussex village he seemed as much out of place as a cow in Bond Street, and even as she waited for an apology Elizabeth found herself wondering at his presence.

With a singular discourtesy, the man ignored her. He was staring over her shoulder towards the tiny station from which the morning train was just pulling out, staring with a ludicrous expression of incredulity and dread. As she saw the fear in his eyes she turned instinctively to face whatever danger threatened.

There was nothing. In the bright morning sunlight, the winding street wore its usual air of perfect calm. In puzzled annoyance she was on the point of turning again when a muttered exclamation from the man partially enlightened her.

It was only then that she noticed the second stranger. He was just emerging from the station, and though he was clearly the cause of the man's exclamation, nothing in his appearance seemed to warrant alarm. Something in the old-world respectability of his dress vaguely suggested to her a dealer in antiques, and his plump, cherubic face beamed with illimitable benevolence. He stood for a moment casting alert, bird-like glances about him through the gold-rimmed spectacles; then, with a brisk, jaunty gait, he moved over to where the solitary pony-cart kept a fruitless vigil for passengers' luggage.

Half-curious and half-angry, Elizabeth faced the bowler hatted man who still stood there. There was a touch of stiffness in her manner as she spoke.

The stranger started and looked at her. He seemed to have just become aware of her existence.

Brushing rudely past as he spoke he hurried up the road towards the church. He was almost running, and his occasional scared glances back towards the station left no doubt about the reason for his haste. Even in her annoyance Elizabeth wondered. The man was thoroughly frightened. He was scuttling away from the new arrival as if his very life depended upon it, fearful of being seen. As the corner hid him, Elizabeth looked again towards the station entrance. Unaware of the hasty retreat he had caused, the cherubic man was talking to the mournful driver of the pony-cart, apparently asking for directions.

It was then she saw the third stranger. In the young man's well-built figure in neat grey flannel, and the handsome, slightly boyish face there seemed nothing extraordinary. His conduct was more peculiar. So far as she could see, he was peeping round the edge of the parcels office doorway, ducking back quickly whenever the cherubic man cast one of his sudden glances in that direction. Plainly he was hiding, but, unlike the man in the bowler hat, there was nothing of fear in his attitude. Whatever the reason for his caution, his movements were adroit enough to escape observation. Still in blissful ignorance of his watcher, the second stranger crossed the road towards her, apparently himself going towards the church.

Elizabeth was aware all at once that she had been staring shamelessly. Before she could look away the man's eyes met hers. In the instant, unreasonably, she felt a rush of terror such as must have affected the man in the bowler hat. In sharp contrast to the chubby, smiling face, the eyes were cold, dead and pitiless and all at once his benignity seemed transformed to sneering cruelty.

It was the merest casual glance. The man paid not the least attention to her, but even as she called herself a fool Elizabeth felt shaken. In her confusion the newspaper slipped from her hand, and as she stooped hurriedly to retrieve it, one page, escaping her grasp, fluttered along the pavement with the unhurried elusiveness of wind-blown objects. Twice she missed it by an inch; then she was aware of a grey-clad figure darting past her.

"Got it!" The triumphant exclamation came just as she realized that the third stranger had come to her help. With a friendly smile he held out the sheet, but even as she stretched out her hand to take it he pounced again, intercepting two white fragments which were quietly making for a nearby puddle. "And these!"

Elizabeth found herself blushing at the ridiculousness of the situation, but the young man's smile was infectious. She laughed as she accepted the errant page and the fragments without looking at them.

"Hasn't the devilish cunning of a hat, though," he responded cheerfully. "Try chasing a bowler down Piccadilly."

As if the thought had reminded him of his quarry, he broke off with a quick glance up the road. Elizabeth looked with him. The second stranger was just rounding the bend, and in a moment would be out of sight. With a smile the young man turned to her again; then a flicker of expression in his brown eyes seemed to show that he had noticed her interest in the man whom he was following. Elizabeth felt herself colouring again at the thought that he might have seen her watching them, but the young man did not appear to notice. Raising his hat, he set off at a leisurely pace after the other two.

For a moment a wild impulse tempted her to follow. There was something fascinating about the curious double chase, and the oddly different persons taking part in it, and though she ordinarily used the field-path which cut off an intervening bend, the actual road to the Manor was the way which the three men had taken. She had started to walk that way when the sight of the man who was coming round the corner made her change her mind and turn hurriedly down the lane which led to the fields.

It was none of the three strangers who was returning. She had recognized the newcomer at once, and for that very reason was anxious to avoid him. Of late, her meetings with John Kinoulton had been rather too frequent for her taste, and her instinct warned her that not all of them were accidental. As a respectable landowner, Justice of the Peace, and even a possible candidate for Parliament, she had nothing against her cousin, but she wished to give him no chance of making a proposal which she had no intention of accepting. Hurrying down the lane with occasional looks back, she gained the fields with a sigh of relief before Kinoulton's tweed-clad figure had passed the entrance.

Only then she became aware of the untidy mass of papers which she was still clutching in both hands, and confident that she was out of sight of the roadway, she stopped to rearrange them. With a little smile as she thought of the young man's boyish enthusiasm in his capture, she had replaced the wandering page, a little muddy from its travels, when something about the two fragments caught her attention. Like the young man, she had thought that they were pieces torn from the paper, and in that belief had accepted them. Now she saw that they were not. They were cuttings from two different papers, carefully removed with a knife, and she turned them over with some curiosity.

"The painless removal of undesirable citizens by legal execution or other means," she read, "may be justifiable and even commendable—"

It flashed upon her what it was. She had no need to glance at the signature below it. It was the letter which her father had written about the execution of James Remshaw. Someone at least had thought it interesting enough to be cut out and filed for reference.

With a slight bewilderment, she glanced at the second cutting. The staring headlines enlightened her immediately.

Automatically she read on, but the lines of print brought her no enlightenment. She remembered seeing accounts of the dead man's trial for a murder notable only for its callous brutality. As a thought came to her, she opened the paper and verified the fact that the portion containing her father's letter was still intact. In any case there would have been the second cutting to be explained.

She was thoughtful as she tucked the paper under her arm and, still holding the cuttings, pursued her way across the fields. Again and again she found herself thinking of the three strangers whose curious actions had excited her interest. The cuttings had not been lying there long. Even if one of them had not been from that morning's paper, they were still clean, and the wind would have blown them away. She had a growing conviction that they had been dropped either by the bowler hatted man or by the second stranger with the cruel eyes. She realized suddenly that both had disappeared on the road by which anyone unfamiliar with the village would normally be directed to the Manor.

The thought made her walk more quickly. Neither of the two had impressed her favourably enough to make her wish to have them visit the house in her absence. She was too well acquainted with her father's nature to think that he would be capable of dealing with them. Since her mother's death, she had borne the burden not only of the household duties, complicated by an inadequate income, but of her father's occasional outbursts of generosity which made more difficult a situation which depreciated investments had already rendered almost impossible. In the hands of a clever swindler, he would be like a child at the first mention of the words "capital punishment." The conviction grew in her mind that some such explanation must lie behind her discovery.

At the stile leading into the road, almost opposite the Manor gates, she stopped with an unaccustomed caution to look along the road by which the three men might be expected to come. As far as she could see it was empty, but she waited for a little, half believing that at any moment one of the three might round the bend. The lane was considerably longer than the path by which she had come, and in spite of the start which they had had, she might still have got there before them.

No one came. In a sudden revulsion of feeling she told herself that she was being fanciful. If the bowler hatted man had indeed dropped the cuttings, probably he had no more sinister intention than to request a subscription for some crank society. She had almost decided that her imagination had invented all the peculiarity of the incident when an accidental glance towards the gates made her change her mind abruptly. In a moment her suspicions were renewed. Here, at least, was one of the three.

It was the man in the bowler hat, and if he had indeed come subscription-hunting, his methods were distinctly original. Just inside the gates stood the ruined lodge, burnt out one night eight years before, and owing to lack of money, never repaired. With its boarded windows and fire-stained walls, though the outer shell remained comparatively intact, no one could suppose for a moment that it was tenanted; but the stranger was standing in the neglected garden examining it with the greatest attention. The oddness of his black figure, standing up to his knees in grass and nettles against the background of the deserted house, made her smile by its likeness to some academy problem picture, but something furtive and mysterious in his manner caused her to back into the hedge fearfully as he glanced round. The action reminded her of the other two men. There was still no sign of them up the lane. Looking again at the bowler hatted man, she saw him move to the lodge door and shake the boards which closed the opening. As if satisfied that no entrance could be obtained that way, he made for the corner of the house, apparently to investigate the back, and in a moment had disappeared.

Elizabeth was over the stile instantly. With a single glance up the empty road, she entered the drive and quietly opened the garden gate. As a girl, in defiance of parental warnings, she had thoroughly explored the ruin, and knew that the best method of approach was actually through a window on the opposite side from that on which she had last seen the man. She was conscious of the least touch of nervousness as she found the loose board and pulled it back; then, after a second's hesitation, she climbed on to the low sill and dropped down, letting the board swing back into its place as she looked about her.

Inside, the place was a chaos of blackened heaps of debris and charred rafters, lit only dimly by the light which filtered through the holes in the roof and the planking which closed the windows. It was months, even years, perhaps, since anyone could have been there, and though only a few yards from the roadway, it came to her suddenly that it was a place where anything might happen without anyone being the wiser. There seemed to be something sinister in the smoke-grimed walls and general desolation of the gutted rooms. Then she brushed aside her fears as imaginary. Whoever the bowler hatted man might be, he was certainly not a vulgar burglar of the holdup kind. Advancing a little way into the room she stood listening.

There was no sound, and the very silence seemed terrifying. Her mind began to conjure up gruesome visions of what the man in the bowler hat might have come there for, and she had to force herself to cross the room to the gap in the brickwork which had once been a door. Here it was lighter, the fallen ceiling having left a gaping hole in the damaged roof, but she had to pick her way carefully among the piles of wreckage. Then she heard something. It came from the room beyond, which had once been the kitchen; the ripping of a board from one of the closed windows. Peering round the edge of the doorway, she saw an oblong of bright sunlight flash in the window opening, closed almost instantly by the figure of a man.

As he dropped down, he tripped over a pile of rubbish, and she heard him swear. Somehow the sound was comforting, and it reassured her. Holding herself ready at any moment to dart back into the room from which she had come, she waited, watching the stranger's proceedings with growing interest. Pulling some kind of paper from his pocket, he studied it for a minute in the light that came through the window; then moved across the kitchen to the left-hand wall, examining the floor carefully as though in search of some minute object. All at once he seemed to have found what he sought, for he stooped quickly, and began to brush away the half-burnt laths and plaster which littered the floor.

Suddenly from behind her came a sound which brought her heart into her mouth. It was the closing of the board in the window by which she had entered. The thought of the man with the cherubic face flashed across her mind in a rush of terror. She was between two fires, but even the mysterious man in the bowler hat seemed preferable to the other. He had heard the sound too. Straightening himself, he stood for a second in the attitude of listening. Stealthy footsteps were crossing the room behind her. With difficulty she repressed a desire to scream. The man in the bowler hat moved quickly. In a second he was scuttling for the window, and in another had swung himself through. As Elizabeth made a motion to follow, she heard the footsteps on the very threshold.

There was no time for the window. Before she could have got through, whoever had entered would be in the kitchen. Slipping through the door, she dived for the dark opening which she knew to be the scullery, and with a wildly beating heart gained the refuge of the two walls which had once been the pantry, just as the intruder entered the kitchen.

She heard him cross the room, presumably to look at the broken board, and there was a pause. For a moment she thought that he had gone. She moved slightly, and her skirt brushed the wall, bringing a cloud of broken plaster with it. Slight though the sound was, the man in the next room had heard it. There was the sound of a quick movement; then footsteps crossed the room coming towards her. The suspense was unendurable. Clutching the newspaper desperately, she waited as a dim figure materialized in the darkness of the scullery itself. The paper crackled, and at once the intruder jumped back. From the doorway she heard a sharp question:

In spite of the threat, the words brought a wave of relief. Obediently she left her refuge and stumbling across the scullery, faced the man who stood before her, gun in hand. It was the young man in the grey suit.

CHAPTER II
An Offer and a Threat

"You!" he exclaimed at last in a tone of sheer unbelief. "You— What are you doing here?"

There was an authoritative note in the question, which nettled her. It was unreasonable enough to be held up at the point of a gun by a trespasser without being asked why she was there.

"Here?" He raised his eyebrows in a humorous expression with a glance at the ruined room, and her annoyance increased at what she was certain was an attempt at evasion.

There was a pause before he answered, and he seemed to be thinking what to say. Looking at him, Elizabeth decided that the youthfulness of his face was deceptive. There was an underlying firmness in it which made her add five years to his age. On the whole, she decided, it was a pleasant face, but his actions were unaccountable, and if he thought that she could be treated like a child he had to be shown his mistake.

"The fact is, I'm on holiday," he explained with what seemed to be a burst of confidence; then he paused again. "I mean, that's why I can't tell you why I'm here. Normally, it's the first thing I should do... But, you see, I'm just amusing myself."

"Shooting?" she suggested, and he laughed outright as he looked at the gun before slipping it into his pocket.

"That was a mistake," he admitted. "The truth is, I was nervous... And it was a bigger mistake to stand here in the daylight to hold you up. If you'd been the man I thought—" He broke off again exasperatingly.

"I doubt if you'd have resisted the temptation to plug me," he finished gravely. "When you shoot people, always get them in the light with yourself in the shadow. It's safer."

She had an annoying feeling that he was laughing at her; and yet she was not sure. He gave the advice with a seriousness which almost tempted her to believe that he lived in the reckless manner in which he talked. She hardened her heart.

"I had gathered it," he assured her. "Though one never knows. There's one right of way I know which goes right through a house—only most people are polite enough to walk round— You see, I was looking for someone."

"You did notice then?" he asked. "Yes—or one of them. The other—well, I don't know where he is at the moment." He passed a hand through his thick brown hair in a gesture between annoyance and bewilderment. But he's somewhere here. And I'm wondering why."

"More or less." His reply was irritatingly vague, but he noticed the slight frown on her face. "A business acquaintance only," he amplified hastily. "In a manner of speaking, we are in rival lines."

The explanation seemed to amuse him hugely, but it did not enlighten Elizabeth, and she felt her temper rising. He was simply playing with her.

"If you won't explain, perhaps you will at least leave," she suggested in her coldest tone. "I have no desire to stand here all day talking to you."

"Now, I could do it myself easily!" His smile almost vanquished Elizabeth. "But then, I've always been fond of talking. Even as a child, and, if anything—"

"If I refuse to go, you're not entitled to use more force than is necessary to remove me from your property," he assured her gravely. "If you are too rough, I can take an action against you for assault."

Elizabeth bit her lip, and then the smile broke through. The young man laughed in sympathy.

"You're talking utter nonsense," she told him, but she smiled as she said it. "And really, I don't want to stop here—"

"I'm awfully sorry." His voice was genuinely contrite. "I do talk nonsense, I know— And I certainly owe you an apology. If only I could explain—" He paused. "You see, I really am on holiday—for the first time for ages—and I'd ruled business out completely, and I was going to Littlehampton or Bognor, or Brighton—"

"I probably shall," he answered. "Unless it's Eastbourne... Because, you see, I saw my two friends on the station just as I was making up my mind which it should be; I was at the booking-office, and I couldn't help hearing what they said. First of all Ted says, 'Third single to Malford Bishop,' and the booking-clerk looked it up in several books, including an atlas and a dictionary of geography, I think, and finally decided there was such a place, and gave him the ticket. And I was just pondering on that remarkable fact and the beautiful new clothes he was wearing and wondering if he was coming to a wedding, when Poldron came up. He peers through the window at the clerk and says, as if he was giving his benediction, 'Malford Bishop, third single,' and after looking it up in a few more books, the man gave him the ticket too. Then it struck me I might as well trail along to make up the party, and I went up to the window and said—"

"How did you guess? Well, he was ready for me, though he must have thought it was some kind of an outing, because when he handed me the ticket he looked out a bit nervously, as though wondering whether there were many more, and if he ought to warn them to put on a few more coaches... And the train was terribly slow, though I had two cups of tea and a bar of chocolate... It's all perfectly true."

"It might be, if only one could guess what you meant by it," Elizabeth said cuttingly. "You mean to say you don't know why you're here, or on what business?"

"My business is the same as that of the first and second murderers, whatever that is," he assured her firmly. "I mean the word in its figurative sense— You see, the one thing certain is that they're not on holiday. With either separately, it might have been, but the two together positively shout of something profitable and felonious. So I thought I'd be in on it."

"Distinctly so.... Our friend Edward is a sort of Jack of all trades. He must be a bit embarrassed in finding himself in such distinguished company—if he's noticed it."

"He has." Elizabeth recalled the look of fear in the bowler hatted man's eyes. As she thought of the cuttings, her voice faltered a little as she put the question. "The second man—he is dangerous?"

"He's a really nasty fellow." The answer was lightly given, but she knew that the words meant more than they conveyed. "Much worse than Edward... You see, he tries too many different lines. What I say is, if jewel robberies are your line, stick to them, or if it's selling dud stock, don't go further from it than confidence tricks. Now if, as I am almost convinced, Poldron's specialities are blackmail and fencing, they're kindred lines. One helps the other, you see."

For a moment Elizabeth had the thought that he must be making fun of her; the fear came to her suddenly that he was not, and with it the realization of what the fact implied.

"And you—you associate with them?" she asked a little hesitantly. She was half hoping that he would burst out laughing or deny it indignantly. "You are—"

"Force of circumstances," he broke in. "You see I—" He checked the explanation suddenly, and Elizabeth found herself thinking of the gun which had slipped into his pocket so easily. "I don't want you to think—"

"I think it's high time we went." She flushed a little as she spoke. "You—you—" She broke off in desperation.

"I don't want to hear the explanation. You don't intend to detain me here, I suppose?"

"But—" he began in genuine distress. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he seemed to accept the situation. "Not at all," he answered with a rueful smile. "We'll go any time you like. Probably you'd prefer to see me off the premises?"

Elizabeth did not answer. She felt angry and vaguely ashamed of herself, and above all furious with the young man. She ignored the hand which he extended to help her through the window, but in spite of her averted face he walked by her side towards the drive.

"And I still don't know why we're here," he said a little mournfully as they reached the gate.

"I can tell you!" she burst out, and half regretted it the next moment. "It's nothing worth your while— We haven't any money."

"You don't mean that it's anything to do with you?" he asked in manifest astonishment. "How do you know?"

"You picked up these." She held out the cuttings miserably. "I hadn't dropped them, but it must have been one of the other two men. You see, my father wrote that letter."

He read the cuttings with puckered brows, and she had to wait, for he was leaning on the closed gate.

"Theodore Hardwick—h'm." He murmured the words thoughtfully. "And there's no reason why— Your father's not a man with a large income and a dark past? or he's not likely to want to dispose of the family plate on the quiet with no questions asked? Or you—your large and expensive collection of jewellery is safely deposited at the bank?"

"Let me pass!" she flamed out suddenly. "I told you there's nothing worth your while. We're desperately poor. It's no use your wasting your time here."

She regretted the words instantly, but they had the desired effect. He opened the gate in silence, and only as she turned up the drive he said a single sentence.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, and in spite of her firmly turned back she heard him, "what you have just said is a great relief to me."

In spite of her chaotic feelings, she found herself wondering what the words meant as she hurried along the drive, resisting with difficulty an impulse to look back. Suddenly the thought occurred to her that the marks of her adventures in the ruined house were probably visible on her face, as they certainly were on her hands. Turning into the shrubbery, she opened her handbag and scrubbed her hands clean with her handkerchief, noting with some surprise that her experiences had left no more deadly trace than a shiny nose. As she repaired the damage, she looked at her reflection a little fiercely. The responsibilities of the household had made it graver than her age warranted, but most men might have found the blue eyes, tilted nose, and rather riotous brown hair attractive. With a little pang, she reflected that the young man had done so. The fact reminded her of John Kinoulton, and she wished rebelliously that the positions of the two could have been reversed. She shut the bag with an impatient snap.

"Elizabeth, you're a fool," she murmured to the vanished reflection, and walked along the path to gain the house by crossing the lawn.

Her face had regained its composure as her father opened the door, and her smile was almost natural.

"You've been hurrying, Elizabeth?" her father asked in mild surprise. "I thought I was late," she answered composedly.

"Ah!" Theodore Hardwick's face beamed as he stretched out his hand eagerly to grasp the paper. "Where?"

Elizabeth turned to the page in silence, but at the muddy marks on the sheet which had fallen, felt the question which her father did not ask.

"I dropped it," she explained. "The wind blew it away—I'd better go and see about lunch, Daddy."

With an effort Hardwick tore himself away from the correspondence column where he had found the three sentences which had survived, sandwiched between letters on plant fascination and bimetallism.

"I forgot," he said apologetically. "We have a visitor—a Mr. Poldron—aren't you well, Elizabeth?"

"I have a bit of a headache," she smiled reassuringly, conscious of the pallor of her face. "Mr. Poldron—what does he want?"

Something in her expression as she asked the question must have penetrated Hardwick's thoughts.

"My dear," he remonstrated. "He doesn't want anything. That is to say, he has an offer to make—a most attractive offer."

"He's not been persuading you to buy shares?" Elizabeth's heart sank as a phrase from the young man's conversation came into her mind. "You haven't bought any?"

"Of course not." There was a note of protest in her father's voice, like a man who feels that, for once, he is being wrongly accused. "He never mentioned shares. He wants to rent the house, and the figure he mentioned was—I forget! It was most generous—"

"You know I always leave business matters to you, dear," her father answered untruthfully. "I told him that he must ask you."

"I'll see him!" There was a glint in Elizabeth's eyes as she answered. "Where? In the morning-room? No, you needn't come, Daddy. I can deal with him better alone."

She had only a momentary tremor as she opened the door and entered. The man with the cruel eyes rose to his feet as he saw her, and gave a little bow. His whole face oozed benignity and kindness, until she looked again past the glasses of the spectacles. Whatever else the young man might have lied about, she was ready to believe what he had said of the man before her, but she smiled politely.

"Mr.—Mr. Poldron?" she asked. "My father told me of your offer... Won't you sit down?"

Mr. Poldron seated himself obediently, and benevolence shone from his face as he looked across at her.

"Your father, I believe, found my suggestion an attractive one, Miss Hardwick," he said without preliminary. "As he no doubt told you, I should like to take the house for the whole summer, furnished as it is. I would guarantee you against all damage to furniture, and would restore the structure to you in as good a condition as when I found it. In fact, with your permission, and subject to your approval of the designs, I should even wish to do some redecoration and repairs. The rent—"

"I don't think we need discuss it, Mr. Poldron," she said decisively. "My father and I have spoken about the matter, and though I am sorry to disappoint you, we do not feel that we can let the house."

"The rent I offered was, I think, adequate." There was mild reproof in his tone. "But I am prepared to raise it if you insist... Shall we say fifty pounds more?"

"I am afraid it is useless, Mr. Poldron." Elizabeth had a pang at the thought of the money, but with such a man she felt that she dared not accept. "We are not letting the house."

"To me?" Poldron had risen to his feet, and she felt his eyes almost piercing through her.

"To anyone, Mr. Poldron," Elizabeth answered with finality. "If I may show you out—"

But Poldron made no move to follow her. Instead, he stood staring at her until her own glance faltered and she looked away.

"Sit down, my dear young lady," he said, and there was a steely note in his voice that belied his smile. "Do not decide rashly. I am afraid that I shall have to use arguments which I had hoped would be unnecessary."

Elizabeth longed to refuse, but there was something compelling in the man before her. She felt a clutch of fear at her heart as she obeyed him.

"It is a generous offer, very generous, Miss Hardwick," he said at last, shaking his head. "Believe me, you would do a great deal better to accept. I speak for your own sake. You had better accept."

The threat in his words was plain, and something told her that it was not an idle one.

"You will permit us to judge that, Mr. Poldron," she rejoined a little tremulously. "No matter what your offer—"

"Reflect, my dear young lady, reflect!" Suddenly his voice changed. "Miss Hardwick, my mind is made up. I wish to rent this house—and those who know me generally see fit to give way to my whims. Accept my offer—or I may find means to compel you."

CHAPTER III
Mr. Buckfast is Startled

FOR a moment Elizabeth sat still without answering. She was telling herself in her mind that the whole situation was incredible—Poldron's ridiculously generous offer, her own refusal, and his insistent threat. It was even more impossible that she should be sitting there meekly listening to him. It was temper more than courage which made her rise to her feet with a little spot of colour flaming in her cheeks.

"Mr. Poldron," she said very quietly, "this discussion has gone far enough. What your motive may be, I do not know. That you should threaten us—"

Poldron had simply sat there watching her, and all the benevolence had come back into his voice when he interrupted gently.

"Believe me, Miss Hardwick, I threaten nothing that I cannot perform," he purred. "For example, I know to a halfpenny the extent to which this house is mortgaged. How precarious your general position is, you know better than I do. I have here a list of your commitments so far as I am at present aware of them. I would ask you to believe that I am fully prepared in every way. Think carefully, Miss Hardwick."

But it was exactly what Elizabeth refused to do. If she had dared to consider the position, she might have weakened. She faced him trembling, but it was with anger and not with fear.

"Mr.—Mr. Poldron," she managed to articulate. "I have only this to say. If you will not leave, I will have you thrown out!"

"I am afraid you do not follow my own excellent principles regarding threats," he rejoined. "I know the extent of your household staff, Miss Hardwick—and I doubt if the maid of all work would be equal to the task!"

He moved to the door without another word, opened it politely and bowed for her to precede him; and only on the doorstep uttered a final warning.

"Good morning, Miss Hardwick," he smiled, "you will hear from me again... If you should change your mind, I shall stay to-night at the inn."

Without answering, Elizabeth closed the door behind him. It was only then that she felt the strain under which she had been labouring, and for a moment she leaned against the doorpost before she found the strength to make her way to the kitchen where Mary, the inefficient but inexpensive servant was at her work.

"Couldn't seem to get on no way, Miss Elizabeth," she confided with a bright smile. "First there was one at the door and then another—a gipsy, two pedlars, and the man to read the electric meter."

"He said something about a special check, mum. Someone had been cheating the company—only fancy! And he told me how you do it. You run a wire round from the main—"

"Oh, I had to, miss!" Mary, especially in moments of emotion, used the two forms of address with sublime impartiality. "They might have summonsed us!"

Elizabeth was thinking hard. The story to her sounded transparently thin, but it was just possible that it might be true. An idea occurred to her.

"Oh, yes'm!" Mary responded brightly. "One of the men had a new clean-all stick, and he offered a free demonstration. Said there was nothing to beat it for taking grease off stonework. And I bet him he couldn't, and he got mad, and tried to show me on the kitchen floor, and it didn't work a bit. I did laugh, miss, and he wasn't half mad!"

"Not the others?" Something in Elizabeth's voice quelled even the maid's flow of light conversation, and she subsided.

"In future, no one at all is to be allowed in the house for any reason," Elizabeth told her firmly, but with little hope. "I am always to be asked first."

"You or master, miss?" the girl suggested, and Elizabeth caught her curious glance.

The question made the weak spot in her defences all too plain, for her father, she knew, was quite as easy to deceive as Mary. On the other hand, she could scarcely override his theoretical authority.

She was still wondering what it all meant when lunch-time came. It was a silent meal, for her father, from the way in which his lips moved, was composing some new attack upon the system of capital punishment, and she herself felt anything but conversational. It was only at the end that her father seemed to recall their visitor of the morning.

"Mr. Poldron went away, then?" he asked diffidently, as if he had a vague doubt that their visitor might not still be concealed somewhere about the premises.

"Yes, Daddy," Elizabeth answered in a good attempt at a normal voice. "I refused his offer."

"Quite right, dear, quite right!" he approved absently, and did not speak again until the meal was ended.

By three o'clock she had almost convinced herself that her fears were imaginary. Poldron with his financial threat might cause them annoyance, but he could do little more. It would always be possible to get the mortgage transferred, even if he made the attempt. She could see nothing else that he could do. She was inclined to laugh at her fears regarding the pedlar and the man who had read the meter. If they had managed to penetrate into the kitchen, she could not see what they had gained by it, for if there was one part of the house that could be considered impregnable, it was the back. In any case, the idea of burglars was ludicrous when there was so little to steal.

Sitting at the piano she had played herself back into good spirits when she was suddenly aware of the shutting of the door. She looked round, expecting to see her father. There was no one in the room. For a minute or two she played on before curiosity overcame her. Someone had evidently glanced in and shut the door again, and she wondered who it was.

In the hall, outside, her father was talking to someone. She felt an unaccountable nervousness. Looking round the door she caught a glimpse of the stranger and drew back hurriedly. Evidently her father had seen her, for the next moment she heard his voice.

She smiled a little grimly. The visitor, whatever his purpose might be, was going to have a shock if she could give him one, but first of all she would hear what he had to say. Perhaps it was another offer to rent the house. She shivered a little at the thought of Poldron; but at least she was not afraid of the bowler hatted man. She was smiling as she advanced to meet him.

"This is my daughter, Elizabeth, Mr. Buckfast," her father introduced. "Elizabeth, this is Mr. Buckfast—Mr. Charles Buckfast."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Buckfast," Elizabeth said dutifully, but added nothing more. "It was her visitor's turn to talk; hers would come later. With genuine pleasure she noted a three-cornered tear in the knee of the striped trousers, due, no doubt, to a stray nail in the window through which he had climbed.

"Pleased to meet you, miss!" Buckfast said hesitantly, but her presence seemed to disconcert him, and reluctantly she was forced to help him out.

"Mr. Buckfast and I have already met, unofficially, Father," she smiled. "He nearly knocked me over in the village this morning! Of course, I didn't know he was coming here—then."

She wondered if the visitor had noticed the pause. If he but knew it, it suggested two coming surprises for him. Whether he had or not, he remained tongue-tied.

"Mr. Buckfast is from Australia, Elizabeth," her father explained. "He knew Jim Shoreham—perhaps you don't remember?"

"Shoreham?" Elizabeth's brows puckered a little at the vague familiarity of the name. "Why, of course—the gardener! Jim would be the son—the boy with the pimples—"

"Yes, dear!" Her father intervened hastily, evidently distrustful of what further reminiscences she might have of the point of view of eleven years old. Then his face seemed to grow inexplicably grave, and his eyes seemed to stare right through them both as if he did not see them. "Jim Shoreham—the son," he murmured almost to himself. "Shoreham was my gardener for fifteen years—"

"It's like this, miss," Buckfast broke in hastily. Hardwick's absent manner seemed to make him uncomfortable. "Shoreham and me were neighbours. Our ranches were next door to each other—we call them ranches out there—"

"Well, you see, he was always talking of the old place back home, and I got so that I could almost see it. Then, when my uncle died and left me all his money—"

He paused for no apparent reason, and it only occurred to Elizabeth afterwards that at this point in the story he usually mentioned an eccentric clause in the will demanding that he should immediately distribute a large sum among the deserving poor. The necessity for omitting it in the present instance momentarily disconcerted him.

"You thought you'd like to see the reality?" Elizabeth suggested. "I hope it came up to expectations, Mr.—Mr. Buckfast?"

"I've shown Mr. Buckfast the house," her father explained, and the reason for the visitor's colonial acquaintance with the gardener's boy was borne upon Elizabeth. She made a shot at random.

"And the kitchen?" she asked. "A charming old eighteenth-century kitchen! We have a lot of people come to see it specially. Why, only this morning we had two! And then, you're interested in kitchens, aren't you? I knew that as soon as I saw you at the lodge this morning!"

Mr. Buckfast only gaped at her for a moment; then he swallowed hard. He seemed a very simple criminal, Elizabeth thought, but then, one had to make allowances for the fact that he was clearly out of his element. To her father her words were far less intelligible than Greek, a language which he knew thoroughly. He glanced from one to the other in utter bewilderment.

"You saw me, miss?" he managed to say at last. "Then it was you—" There seemed to be relief in his face besides embarrassment. "Of course, I didn't ought to have gone in without permission, but the place took my fancy—"

"And, of course, you knew it was Jim's old home?" Elizabeth helped him. "If I'd known why you came, I should have spoken to you. I expect you thought that it was your friend, Mr. Poldron?"

Buckfast's face went as white as paper. This shot had certainly gone home. It was a minute before he could speak.

"He called this morning," Elizabeth smiled brightly. "He told me that he'd seen an old friend here who might be calling, and recognized you at once when I described you. He said that he very much hoped that he'd meet you, as there was something he particularly wanted to tell you... In fact, I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't looking for you now. Probably you'll meet him as you go out! He's such a charming old gentleman, don't you think?"

"He—he knows I'm here?" Buckfast was thoroughly demoralized, and with the feeling that she had got him on the run, Elizabeth pressed her advantage.

"He thought of calling back here on the chance of finding you," she assured him. "Let me see—about four, he said. Why, that's only a few minutes now! You'll wait, won't you?"

"Perhaps Mr. Buckfast would have tea," her father suggested. He could not guess at the reasons for his guest's discomfort, but with natural courtesy stepped to his aid. "We should be very pleased, Mr. Buckfast—"

"Oh, you must, Mr. Buckfast!" Elizabeth urged with malicious joy at the sight of his face.

"I—I—it's later than I thought, miss!" he refused. "I couldn't—got to catch a train—"

"What time?" Elizabeth asked. She knew the limited local time-table by heart, but suspected that their visitor did not.

"Surely not!" Elizabeth looked puzzled. "There's no train until—but I'll ring up the station and make sure."

"No, miss! I'll be going!" Buckfast said firmly with a glance towards the door. "Really I won't trouble you."

There was no point in keeping him longer, especially as in all probability Poldron was not coming, but Elizabeth decided to speed the parting guest with a final dig. She wrinkled her brows a little.

"Of course, if you're sure, Mr. Buckfast," she assented. "Oh, there's one thing I was wondering about—if you won't think me impertinent. Father said your name was Charles—"

"I—" Mr. Buckfast began. "He always calls me that, miss," he said at last. "Funny, ain't it? I'll be going, and thank you!"

Elizabeth would have let the routed enemy go, and she suspected strongly that Mr. Buckfast sincerely wished there was a train at four-fifteen. In perfect innocence, her father delayed the wretched man a little longer.

"He's liked in the neighbourhood—respected?" Hardwick persisted, and Elizabeth looked at him curiously. He was asking the question as though it was a matter of primary importance and with a peculiar purposefulness in his manner which she could not understand.

"Yes, he was," Buckfast answered with a desperate glance at the grandfather's clock. "But he—"

"I was right, then!" The triumph in the old man's voice made even their visitor look at him in bewilderment, and Elizabeth was thoroughly at sea. "I was right. I knew it! If he had a chance— You can give me his address?"

"Dead?" Hardwick's voice was shocked. "But he must have been quite young—thirty? No, twenty-eight... Was it an accident?"

"Perhaps you'd see Mr. Buckfast out, Father," Elizabeth suggested. An idea had come to her suddenly. She had better make sure where her visitor was going. With a sweet smile she held out her hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Buckfast! It has been a real pleasure to talk to you! I'm sorry you can't stay. I'll tell Mr. Poldron."

Buckfast's reply was inarticulate, and as her father led him towards the door, still inquiring about Jim Shoreham, she slipped on her hat and coat and made for the side door. By the time she gained the front of the house, he was already hurrying down the drive, and, running across the lawn, she took the little path through the shrubbery which cut across to the gates.

Suddenly she stopped as a figure darted into the bushes just ahead. The exhilaration she had felt at outwitting one of the enemy seemed to evaporate in an instant. For a moment she stood quite still; then turned and began to walk slowly back towards the house. Brief as the glimpse had been, she had recognized the young man in the grey suit.

CHAPTER IV
A Meeting of Rivals

SEATED on a damp stone among the rhododendron bushes fringing the drive, Donald Moreton lit his fourth cigarette with a feeling of the deepest gloom. He had really meant to take a holiday. He was thoroughly tired of police, criminals and everyone, and all because of a chance meeting at the station and a girl who would probably never care a row of beans for him, he had missed lunch and sat for hours in a wet shrubbery watching the Manor front door. It looked to him too much like work to be pleasant, and it would have been a comfort of a sort if he had had the vaguest idea what it was all about.

He had seen Theodore Hardwick, the girl's father, whose fatuous letter to the papers seemed to have started the trouble, and it was his firm conviction that a more harmless old gentleman not merely did not exist, but never would. For a dull half-hour he had watched the old man in the garden, apparently shooing wood-lice off the rockery, but the sight had given him no inkling of why his house should have been a rendezvous for one of the finest collections of prize members of the criminal classes he had seen. There was Poldron, who was really dangerous. There was Ted, harmless by comparison. There was a gentleman in artistic overalls who had gone to the back door, and whose face he was almost sure lingered in his memory in connection with robbery with violence, with at least two dubious callers. He had taken the trouble of following Poldron back to the village, where, after a long trunk call, he seemed to have booked a room at the inn. For Ted he had waited a long time before he had finally seen him go up the drive, and even then he was awaiting his return, half inclined, in sheer desperation, to see if he could scare the truth out of him.

Through a gap in the leaves he commanded a view of the doorway. It seemed a long time before the bowler hatted Ted finally emerged, and extinguishing the cigarette, he crept back into the bushes to gain the drive. His quarry was in an inexplicable hurry, and he had to move quickly to gain the edge of the drive before he passed. Diving across a narrow pathway, from a clump of laurel, he was in time to see Ted go past.

Something had evidently disturbed him, and looking at his scared face, Moreton would have given a good deal to know what had been said to him in the house. Ted was looking round him nervously as though he expected to see someone at any moment, and there could be no question of following him along the drive. Slipping back through the bushes, he gained the little path which he had crossed and, judging by ear, kept pace with the hurrying man as well as he could.

He heard Ted cross the place where the path joined the drive while he was fortunately still out of sight round a bend caused by an old yew-tree, and hastened forward so as not to lose him at the lodge gate, with half an idea that he might make another attempt on the burnt-out cottage. All at once he halted abruptly. Ted was talking to someone in the drive and as he listened he recognized the oily voice of Poldron. At all costs he must try and hear what might prove a very illuminating conversation. With the stealth of a Red Indian, he crept through the shrubbery, finally crawling on hands and knees and feeling his way inch by inch to the detriment of his clothes, until he at last gained a point from which he could distinguish the words of the speakers. It was Ted who was speaking in the tone of a man who feels that he has a grievance that he dare not voice.

"But how could I know you were coming down?" he asked plaintively. "I've as much right—"

"How should you know enough to go to the Hardwick's house at all, Bovey? That is what I should like to know." Poldron's words were soft, but there was some undertone of threat in his voice. "Surely you'll be only too pleased to tell me?"

"I've told you!" Bovey said in a tone of desperation. "I just came down to ask about a friend—"

"At the Hardwick's? You're moving up in the social sphere, Bovey. I congratulate you! They may be as poor as church mice—which makes it all the more unlikely that you should try to cultivate their acquaintance, but—"

"So you do know?" Poldron's quiet voice came relentlessly. "So it was to ask about the gardener's boy, Jim Shoreham, you came? Or was it his ghost? Do you seriously mean to tell me that you don't know about him? I cannot bear the idea of people telling lies—to me, Bovey."

"I've told you all I'm going to!" Bovey said obstinately. "And anyway, you can't drive me off—so if that's what it was you wanted to say so particularly that you had to send a message through that cat of a girl—"

"Then, she knows... Or she knows something. That was why she refused—" Poldron broke off exasperatingly. "That's a complication. What else did she tell you?"

"Hush, Bovey!" Poldron's voice sounded as though he was genuinely shocked. "For your information, I never mentioned you to her. Until I saw you a moment ago, I had no idea you were here. Why you are here, I know, and it is useless for you to deny it. How, I shall know eventually... And in the meantime, I only remind you that most people prefer to leave me alone."

"I'm just remembering all the nice things you say to me, Bovey. And I needn't do anything. I don't mind your being here. If anything illegal should happen, how handy it would be to have someone—an old lag with a bad record—who would naturally take the blame."

"You're getting excited, Bovey," Poldron chuckled. "I wouldn't have to, you poor little rat! You'll frame yourself... Perhaps this interesting conversation has lasted long enough? You will excuse me if I bid you good afternoon... Which way were you going? No doubt to the village. How fortunate! Then we shall part at the gate, and you will be able to think."

Moreton, at least, was thinking pretty hard as they moved away. Poldron, it seemed, was not coming to the house; he must have seen Bovey enter and waited for him. Nor was he going to the village. Unless he was going across the fields, it meant he was going up the lane in the other direction, and so far as Moreton knew, that led nowhere in particular. He had to find out what was taking the more dangerous enemy in that direction, and Bovey could wait.

Peering out cautiously, he at last saw the two men separate at the entrance to the drive, and as he had expected, Poldron turned in the opposite direction from the village. Giving him time to attain a reasonable start, he set off in pursuit.

It was a tricky business following his quarry along the winding lane, and twice Poldron's habit of glancing round quickly almost led to his detection. The lane degenerated steadily, until they reached a point where, turning up through the beech-woods, it breasted the bare slopes of the downs as the merest sunken track. Moreton was puzzled where they could be going, but that was only one puzzle of many. Not least he was surprised at Bovey's unexpected obstinacy. Ordinarily he would have caved in at once when faced with a man like Poldron, and there must be some extraordinarily big prize at stake to tempt him to such competition.

Poldron turned up through the beech-wood, where the dry, crackling leaves underfoot made it necessary to keep a greater distance. Moreton was some way behind when the other emerged on the short turf beyond, and the worst of it was he could not see how he was to get any closer. Almost half-way up, the man he was following stopped in full view, seated himself gingerly, and lit a cigar.

From the edge of the wood Moreton watched him. For perhaps five minutes he sat there without a movement, except for the hand which occasionally raised and lowered the cigar. At last he raised his hands and seemed to yawn. A minute later, Moreton realized that it must have been a signal. Two men had left the cover of the beech-woods from separate points on each side of him and were moving up to join the seated man.

His position, Moreton realized, was one of some danger. The spot was lonely enough for drastic measures, and carefully as he had hidden himself from the man in front, it had never occurred to him to trouble about any possible watchers at the sides. He might very well have exposed himself to their view, but there was no sign of excitement as the two men seated themselves beside their leader and began to talk. Almost certainly they were the salesman and the man in overalls who had called at the house, and it was disquieting to think that Poldron had come prepared to take strong measures to achieve whatever might be his object. They conversed for some minutes, while Moreton reflected that, so far as avoiding being overheard was concerned, they could hardly have made a better choice than that lonely stretch of hillside. Not even a bird could have got near them unnoticed. He could only wait.

All at once one of the men rose to his feet and began to descend the track towards the wood, leaving the other two seated there. From his shelter, Moreton recognized him. It was certainly the hold-up man who had masqueraded in overalls at the Manor that morning, and in a flash he remembered the man's name. It was Strelley. With that recollection came others, far from reassuring. It was Strelley's custom, unusual amongst criminals of his acquaintance, to go armed, and Moreton remembered enough about him to know that he was a very ugly customer. His thoughts flew to the girl, alone except for her father and the maid, in the large, rambling manor-house uncomfortably remote from any neighbours, and he decided quite definitely that there could be no hope of his trip to the sea until Poldron and his assistants at least had returned to town, or were otherwise disposed of.

In the meantime, he had the choice of staying where he was or following Strelley. He chose the latter only after some hesitation. The man might be going back to the house, and he had no fancy for leaving it unguarded. With the additional handicap that he had to watch his rear in case he might be overtaken by the other two, he started to retrace his steps after Strelley.

They had gone only a short way before it became apparent that the Manor was not their objective. Through a white-painted gateway which evidently betokened a private drive, Strelley turned off to the left. With only a wire fence on each side, the route he had chosen led straight over a bare pasture, beyond which a clump of trees and the gables of a large house seemed to indicate his destination. Here again he could not follow owing to the exasperating lack of cover. Through the hedge, he watched helplessly as Strelley opened the gate at the far end of the drive and disappeared among the trees.

Unless he returned to the two men whom he had left on the downs, there was nothing for him to do but wait for the man's return. The visit to the house to which the drive led was puzzling. It was manifestly the residence of some country gentleman, and what took Strelley to it was beyond either his powers of reason or his imagination. The sight of a man driving a timber drag along the lane towards the wood gave him an idea. He might at least acquire information, and as the man drew abreast he stopped him, with a wary eye on the road down which Poldron and the other man might come.

"That'll be Mr. Hardwick's place, Malford Manor, won't it?" he asked. "Mr. Theodore Hardwick?"

"No, sir," the man answered readily. "You've passed it—if you came the village way. A drive up on your right—"

"I made sure this was it!" Moreton answered in feigned annoyance. "Why, who lives there, then?"

"It's Mr. Kinoulton's place—Brinton Abbey, it's called." The man pointed with his whip. "You'll find the Manor just along there, sir."

"Kinoulton?" Moreton echoed. "I don't seem to know the name... Isn't he new here?"

"Why, Lord, no, sir!" The man laughed. "Born here and lived here nearly all his life. He's related to Mr. Hardwick, too. Some sort of cousin, sir."

"It looks a fine place from here," Moreton admired. "Suppose it's not open to visitors?"

"Inside, the finest in the district, I'd say, but then, Mr. Kinoulton's wealthy. Owns half the land hereabouts. Mr. Hardwick could get you permission, I dare say, sir."

"That's a good idea," Moreton approved. "His cousin, you say? Seems a pretty prominent man."

"Justice of the Peace and most other things, sir." The man gathered up his reins. "And, if you'll take my advice, you'll see you don't come before the bench when he's on it whether for motoring or anything you like!"

There was still no sign of either Strelley or Poldron, and Moreton leant on the gate digesting the information. It helped him very little, unless it showed that the Abbey, rather than the Manor, was the house which was to be favoured with the attentions of the three. Yet he hardly thought so. Everything had pointed to Hardwick's place as the objective, from the cutting to Poldron's visit there in person. On the other hand, the idea that a man in Kinoulton's position could have anything to do with whatever the crooks were proposing was unthinkable.

He was aware suddenly that Strelley was returning along the drive, but he was not alone. Between him and his companion there was something thoroughly incongruous. The middle-aged man to whom he seemed to be talking excitedly must, he was convinced, be Kinoulton himself, and as they came nearer it was plain that he was very angry.

Moreton looked round quickly. He was not sure that Strelley would recognize him, but they would hardly say anything of importance if they knew someone was within earshot. He had to hide, and a gateway on the opposite side of the lane offered a convenient refuge. In a moment he had slipped through, and crouching behind the bank waited for them to approach.

Kinoulton, if it was he, was talking loudly. It might have been Moreton's fancy, but there seemed something besides anger in the voice. It sounded as though the man was delivering some kind of an ultimatum, in which he himself was not sure that he believed, and was trying by over-emphasis to bolster up his own confidence.

"Mind, tell Shoreham once and for all, I won't help him under any condition! And the next time he sends me any request of this kind, the man who brings it will find himself in trouble."

"I only gave the message, sir." Strelley spoke in an abject whining voice which, knowing his character, Moreton found almost comic. "I didn't know—"

"I believe you're together in it. You're getting off lightly. Now, I've no more to say. Clear off!"

"I didn't mean any harm, sir," Strelley persisted. "He said you'd been kind to him before, and might help if you knew how things were. He's in a bad way, sir. Maybe you've not heard from him lately?"

"I haven't, and I don't want to. Go back and tell him. That's enough. If you don't go—"

Moreton heard Strelley turn up the lane towards the downs, and giving him time to get out of sight, emerged from his hiding-place, and with a quick look back to make sure that none of the three could see him, started after Kinoulton. The only risk lay in being seen by Poldron or the other two, and he was inclined to think that it was not very great. In all probability, Strelley had gone back to where the two men waited to report the success of his mission, or its lack of success. Kinoulton did not know him, and would hardly suspect a respectably dressed stranger. He even hurried to get close to the man ahead, and as Kinoulton stopped to light his pipe, acting on the impulse of the moment, overtook him and spoke.

Kinoulton had started at the unexpectedness of the question, but he answered politely.

"You'll find the turning just beyond the village," he said. "Malford Bishop, that is. It's just ahead. You can't miss it." A pair of keen eyes surveyed his questioner, and seemed to find the result satisfactory. He fell into step beside Moreton as he was about to move on.

"More or less." Moreton laughed. "I send on my luggage from place to place. Never could see the fun of a knapsack. Then I get there how I like. Thought I'd walk this bit."

"It's a good step, but you couldn't do better." The stern face of the man beside him softened as he looked over the stretch of downs and meadows before them. "I almost envy you!"

There had been a very slight, but perceptible, pause before the last word, but it conveyed very little to Moreton. Kinoulton was very different from what he had expected. On the whole he was disposed to like him; though looking at the firm lines of his face, and the rather tight lips, he did not wonder if those brought up before him on the Bench thought otherwise. The mystery of the connection between him and the man called Shoreham, whoever he might be, was deeper than ever.

They walked in silence for a time, until they had nearly reached the gates of the Manor.

"There's a cut across the fields here," Kinoulton said at last. "It would save you half a mile, or so. See, over that stile, beyond the little copse to where you can see the station there... I turn off here myself."

"Thanks, I'm grateful." Moreton turned towards the stile from necessity. "Good evening!"

Looking back, he saw Kinoulton turn up the weed-grown drive leading to the Manor.

CHAPTER V
Kinoulton Speaks Out

TO John Kinoulton's disappointment, it was not Elizabeth, but her father, who greeted him as the door opened. Hardwick's obvious pleasure was not unmixed with surprise, for his wealthier cousin was by no means a frequent visitor at the Manor.

"You, John!" he exclaimed. "Come in. I've finished work for the evening. My pamphlet—"

Kinoulton's face softened to a smile as he followed Hardwick inside. He shared the opinion of the district generally that his cousin was a little mad, but to an even greater extent its affection for him.

"Elizabeth—is she in?" he asked with an attempt to make the question seem casual which was a dismal failure.

"She's lying down," he answered, and noticed that his guest's face fell. "She doesn't seem herself at all this afternoon. I think she has had a trying day. One or two people have been bothering us."

"Thank you, John, but we have discussed that before. You know that my daughter would feel strongly about it, and I entirely agree with her... We can't arrange it that way."

Something enigmatical in the way he spoke the last sentence made Kinoulton look at him keenly. It was almost as though they were intended as a test to himself. Sometimes his cousin puzzled him, and he was inclined to think that he had delusions on other subjects than capital punishment. Then he forgot the impression.

Hardwick had risen to his feet and was moving to the door when his cousin stopped him with what seemed unnecessary violence.

"No!" he cried sharply, and Hardwick looked at him in mild surprise as he resumed his seat. "Better not, perhaps."

He stared into the fire for a moment in silence before he looked across at his host with the air of a man who makes up his mind.

"I'm forty-one," Kinoulton continued suddenly. "Perhaps at an age when people are supposed to have outgrown youthful enthusiasms, but I love Elizabeth more than anything in the world. I don't know how long I have loved her. I've realized it perhaps in the past year or so. Lately I've felt I had to speak. Before, I didn't know what to do. I've known Elizabeth as a child for years—and she probably regards me in the light of a grandfather!" He laughed harshly. "I'm forty-one and she—"

"Will be twenty-one in June." Hardwick merely completed the unfinished sentence, and his words were devoid of expression. Kinoulton nodded.

"That was one thing," he said slowly. "Another—well, I wasn't sure how you would regard it, and I think that what you felt would be an important consideration with her."

There was a silence which Kinoulton finally broke in a tone of fierce resolution.

"It's no use my going over my qualifications as a husband to you," he broke out. "We're the same family. By sheer luck, I've money and you haven't—and you won't accept it. You know that the will under which I inherited was written in a moment of temper. If he had lived, he might have made a different one entirely—probably would."

Kinoulton glanced quickly at his cousin, and for some reason he had grown suddenly pale. There was a pause before he spoke with the slightest tremor in his voice.

"That hardly matters," he said. "I wasn't trying to make out that I was a fine catch because our branch of the family happened to inherit the fortune. I meant that I could support her, that she could have what she wanted... It's no use my going on like this. I want to hear what you think. You know Elizabeth. You've known practically everything of any importance that's happened in my life."

"Yes," Hardwick assented in a voice which was barely audible. "Everything of importance."

His cousin seemed to detect some hidden significance in his tone, for he flushed and his eyes fell.

"I know I played the fool at one time," he said. "That was years ago. Since then—don't you think that a man can ever atone for his stupidities?"

"Yes, I do, John!" he said frankly. "Everyone in the neighbourhood respects you. It's not that—"

"The fact is, it seems to me that it is not a matter on which I can decide," he said at last. "It doesn't matter what I know about you. It is what Elizabeth thinks. And with regard to that, I can only say that I don't know. I mean that she has known you long enough to decide for herself, and it would be wrong for me to attempt to influence her one way or the other... I appreciate your asking me. I certainly shall not try to influence her against you, but, speaking from my own point of view entirely, I think the whole business is a muddle. I had known my wife for three days before I proposed—and she accepted me. We were happy for fifteen years. I have known other cases—" He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. "Years ago I made up my mind that above all others it was the one subject upon which I would never offer advice."

"This is the twentieth century," Hardwick said a little dryly. "Would that make any difference? In fact, has it ever done? I don't know... Of course you can ask her—but not to-night." He smiled. "I honestly think, John, that that proviso is in your interest. She is nervous and excited. I think she is feverish. Whichever way she answered, she might think differently afterwards."

Hardwick blinked across at him in mild surprise at the violence of the question. Kinoulton was sitting rigidly, leaning forward a little towards him, and his eyes were burning.

"Oh, there was a man who wanted to rent the house furnished for the summer. Elizabeth dealt with him. I think that he must have annoyed her, for she decided against his offer which was very generous—"

"But Elizabeth would say there was," Hardwick answered, and, himself a self-reliant man, Kinoulton felt a sudden pity for his cousin's reliance on his daughter. "The other—oh, he just wanted to see the house. He'd known a servant of the family in the colonies—"

"I doubt if you'd remember him," Hardwick evaded. "He was, I thought, quite a harmless man. Something Elizabeth said upset him terribly. I didn't understand."

"It was Jim Shoreham?" he asked, and his voice had suddenly grown quiet and controlled.

"Yes, Jim Shoreham," he said at last. "The gardener's boy. He left us when he was eighteen, and two years after, his mother and father died in the fire at the lodge. It seems that he went abroad, and was doing well in Australia."

"That was all he said?" Kinoulton asked in a voice of unnatural calm. "To you or to her?"

"Not quite," Hardwick answered, and Kinoulton's knuckles clenched whitely on the arms of his chair. "Shoreham is dead."

"Of course, he was still a young man," Hardwick continued as though he had noticed nothing. "It was an accident. His neck was broken."

"Dead," Kinoulton said again and stopped. He looked up suddenly from the fire, and his face seemed to have grown younger. "And you—?" he asked with a smile. "They didn't upset you?"

I was busy." Hardwick's eyes lit up. "I was writing my new pamphlet. It's here!"

"You're still trying to reform the world, then, Theodore?" he asked. "And, as a magistrate, I suppose I am, but yours is theory; mine is generally very indigestible fact. I wonder how your theories would work if—"

He broke off sharply, half turning towards the door. For a second he sat as if turned to stone.

"She left at six o'clock," Hardwick answered softly, and as Kinoulton rose to his feet he joined him. "Perhaps Elizabeth—"

"It wasn't her step." The positiveness in his voice might have surprised anyone but Hardwick. "It was a heavy step—a man's—"

All at once he slipped silently across the room, flung the door open and stood gazing into the darkened hall. Hardwick joined him, and feeling along the wall, turned the switch. The hall was empty.

"The door!" A breath of cold night air had made Kinoulton look in that direction. "It's open—"

"I very much doubt if I shut it," Hardwick admitted ashamedly. "I am very careless with doors. Elizabeth tells me so. Last week the policeman knocked us up at midnight."

Stepping to the front door, he turned the key in the lock before he led the way to the drawing-room. He had touched the handle when from the dining-room next to it came a deafening crash. Almost knocking over Hardwick, he darted inside and turned the switch.

But the sparsely furnished room was obviously empty. Only on the sideboard a heavy gong had somehow fallen from its support.

"Someone's been here!" Kinoulton exclaimed. Hesitating for only a second, he rushed to the windows, and carefully examined the fastenings. In a minute or two he turned to Hardwick with a puzzled face. "Someone was here!" he declared. "Someone must have been... It couldn't have fallen by itself. And no one came out."

He stood looking round him, and then shivered slightly as though he felt the cold.

"It must have been slipping all the evening," Hardwick suggested. "Probably the maid put it wrongly in position." He smiled. "Mary is like that. Elizabeth is the really efficient member of the household. It just slipped."

"You know the house," he said at last. "I suppose there aren't any secret passages—priests' holes, anything? This panelling—it's old. Perhaps—"

"I'm afraid that panelling is a dreadful fraud," Hardwick admitted as though he was ashamed of the fact. "It looks as though it's as old as the house, but as a matter of fact I had it put in myself. It's imitation. The worm was in the other. The walls are absolutely solid. I saw them all when the stonework was bared, and the floor under this parquet is solid cement. The ceiling—" He waved a hand towards the unbroken expanse of plaster. "You must be nervous too, John. You've got to accept the evidence of your eyes."

"I don't want to!" Kinoulton said in a strained voice. "For that gong didn't fall by itself... see the rest."

The search was soon over, but neither the drawing-room nor the morning-room revealed a sign of any intruder. The door leading to the kitchen was locked and bolted on the hall side, but Kinoulton peered inside, and even explored the pantry. He was frowning as he returned to the hall. From time to time he threw nervous glances over his shoulder. He glanced up quickly.

"No," Hardwick answered positively. He gave a shamefaced laugh. "Of course, I ought to have them seen to, but the stairs creak abominably, and you were in the hall half a minute after you heard the step the last time. No one could have got to the top. Besides, that wouldn't explain the gong in the next room—"

"The wind, perhaps, or the door banging and the gong slipped of its own accord. Really, John, you're not yourself... Let's go back to the study. We'll have a glass of sherry—I've some left."

He laughed with some embarrassment. "I'm afraid I can't ask you to dinner," he apologized. "We don't bother with it in the ordinary way, and Elizabeth isn't well—"

The room looked cosy enough in the bright firelight, but Kinoulton switched on the lamps, and pulled together the half-drawn curtains before he sat down, and accepting the glass his host offered him, drained it at a gulp. Lighting a cigarette, he laughed with a slightly forced note.

"I expect that I am keyed up," he admitted. "I wasn't sure what you'd say... I'm at the stage when I'd like to get it over one way or the other."

Hardwick only nodded sympathetically. His calm eyes dwelt upon his cousin as he sat silent, covering his face with his hand. He looked up sharply.

"I've made my will," he said. "Whatever happens—I mean, whatever Elizabeth says, of course the property comes to you; that is, a life interest, and on your death, to her."

"It's very good of you, John, but—" There was hesitation in Hardwick's manner. "Even if Elizabeth should refuse you, you will probably marry. I know that you don't think you will," he hurried on. "One never does. But you might. Then you'd have to change it. I shouldn't tell Elizabeth just yet. You see, I need so very little. Except for my pamphlets—"

"Your pamphlets... I wonder, Theodore, if you aren't right. If you could only put them into practice—"

Kinoulton's face was dubious, and a shade of worry showed in his expression. Then he smiled.

"They were successful!" Hardwick affirmed stoutly. "To-day, I know they were successful. I am sure of it."

Kinoulton took his hat and coat from the chair-back where he had thrown them carelessly on entering.

Hardwick conducted him to the door in silence, but on the step his cousin was moved to a final admonition.

"For heaven's sake, Theodore, don't forget to lock up this time! I think you scared me stiff, and it's not safe, really. Good night!"

Neither of them noticed the dark figure which glided from the room in which they had been sitting, and crossing the hall, slid noiselessly into the morning-room.

CHAPTER VI
A Night Alarm

UTTERLY worn out, Elizabeth had gone to her room after tea with the intention of lying down for a short time only until she had cured the splitting headache which the excitement of the day seemed to have caused, but the mild sedative which she had accepted under pressure from her father must have had a more violent effect than would have been expected; for she did not even wake when, five hours later, her father, looking in to say good night, pulled the eiderdown over her and left her sleeping.

It was dark when she woke, but she had no idea of the time. She had lain there in drowsy half-consciousness, trying to make up her mind to get up, when she heard the church clock begin to chime the hour. Automatically she counted the strokes, and as the twelfth sounded, sat up in surprise. She had never suspected that she could have slept so long, and she wondered whether her father had gone to bed.

Flinging off the eiderdown, she felt her way across the room to the door and opened it gently. The light in the hall below had been extinguished, and the house seemed to be in perfect darkness. She hesitated on the threshold. It was the thought of the curious visitors that her father's letter seemed to have brought in the morning and afternoon which decided her. She had locked up a large part of the house before going upstairs, but the front door had been left, and she knew that the odds were against her father's having remembered to lock it. Closing the door behind her, she began quietly to descend the stairs.

She had kicked off her shoes on lying down, and her steps were noiseless, but under her weight the old stairs creaked abominably, and she was afraid that even her father, normally a sound enough sleeper, might have heard. A primitive-minded country electrician had provided no double switch for the staircase, and she had to feel her way along the banisters, but she reached the bottom without trouble and crossing the hall began to grope for the switch.

With something between a scream and a gasp she started back. Her fingers had touched something which moved, something soft and rough. Realization flashed upon her. It was a man's coat. Someone was standing in the darkness within three feet of her. At the thought, she had turned in a second, but as she did so, she felt her arm gripped. The next moment, before she could scream, a hand covered her mouth, and a harsh voice whispered:

If she had wanted to, Elizabeth could not have obeyed. She struggled instinctively in mere terror, and so furiously that in the first surprise she almost broke from the clutch of her captor. She felt her heel strike something as she kicked out, and her assailant swore beneath his breath. His hold loosened a little. One of her arms was free, and reaching out she touched the switch, at the same moment, with a quick wriggle, momentarily freeing her mouth. Her cry sounded through the house as the lights blazed up.

The next moment she was borne to the ground. She did not recognize the man who held her. He might have been one of the callers at the back door, the electrician or the traveller in soap. She had no time to think about it before something was whipped round her mouth. Unable to cry, she still struggled, and the man's patience seemed to be exhausted. His right hand went up threateningly, holding a short rubber truncheon attached to his wrist by a strap.

Elizabeth had regained control of herself after her first terror. She obeyed instantly. It was useless to invite the stunning blow which she knew that the short weapon was capable of giving, and a single glance at the man who held her was enough to assure her that he would not hesitate to use it. Holding her with one hand, he reached out the end of the truncheon and touched the switch. The sudden darkness seemed the more intense for the brief period of light.

Footsteps sounded close beside her, apparently coming from the direction of the kitchen. A second man knelt beside her.

"Arms together!" she heard the curt command, and to give it point she felt her wrists gripped cruelly. A rope was passed round them, cutting painfully into her flesh, and at the same moment she felt her feet similarly treated. In a moment she was a mere helpless bundle.

"In there!" a voice whispered, and she felt sure that she had heard it before. It was Poldron. "On the couch."

One of the men picked her up roughly like a sack. He seemed to be carrying her towards the morning-room. She saw her chance and kicked out with all her strength. Her feet caught the case of the grandfather clock with a crash, bruising her toes; the next moment a louder crash showed that the clock had fallen.

In the instant of silence which followed, she heard a door open above, the sound of hurried feet, and then her father's voice.

She heard the stair creak, and longed to shout a warning. The two men who had bound her hands and feet were creeping up to attack her father. She had no time to see what happened. Bundling her through the door, the man who carried her flung her down heavily on the couch just inside.

All at once she was conscious of a quick movement in the darkness at her side. Her assailant had heard it too, for he swung round with a sharp question.

There was the sound of a blow, and another cry from the man who carried her, but this time it was a shout of warning.

There was a crack and then a heavy thud. In the silence she heard a reassuring whisper.

A rush of feet sounded on the stairs; then on the tiles of the hall. A brilliant beam of light flashed from the dark doorway full on to the figure of her captor lying prostrate on the floor. Close beside her, a little spurt of flame leaped suddenly and vanished with the subdued clap of an explosion. A cry of pain came from the hall, and the torch dropped with a smash leaving them in darkness.

There was a moment's silence, broken only by the strangled gasps of someone in the hall. She guessed that it was the man who had been hit. Then stealthy footsteps began to recede towards the kitchen door.

The footsteps ceased, leaving a breathless stillness. Involuntarily she moved and the couch creaked beneath her. Something whistled close by her head. The man beside her replied instantly. There was a sound of quick movement, and as her unknown friend leaped to follow, he seemed to trip and fall heavily. For a moment she thought that he had regained his feet and was running out into the hall. Then she realized that it was not her rescuer, but the man whom he had knocked out. As a door slammed, she heard a movement from the floor.

There was a quick step and the lights blazed up. She looked up at her rescuer. It was the man in the grey flannels.

He was kneeling beside her in a moment, unwinding the scarf which gagged her, and she sat up gasping as he pulled it clear and felt in his coat pocket.

"Me!" he assented, as he cut the cords of her wrists. "Donald Moreton, as I'm afraid I forgot to mention this morning... Ankles, please! There!"

"They'd only have left you tied up, I think," he assured her. "And, if I'm a hero, I'm not a very proud one. Fancy my letting them get away like that, and I had two good hits at that lad who gripped my leg, and even then only put him down for a count of nine!"

"My father! He called out—" The recollection came to her suddenly. "They've—they've killed him!"

"Don't think so," the young man answered with comparative calm. "They weren't out for killing this trip—till I fired and they got nasty. We'll find him tied up. Come on."

He held out an arm, and in her fear for her father she clasped it without thinking. Almost at the top of the stairs they saw Hardwick lying trussed up neatly, and his convulsive wriggling showed that he was distinctly alive. The young man's knife came into play, and he sat up, dazed but otherwise all right.

"I—I don't understand," he said confusedly. "I locked up everywhere. How—how did they get in?"

"Back door," Moreton replied promptly. "One of them had evidently been alone in the kitchen this morning long enough to prepare it. The screws of the bolt-sockets were loose. They'd have been busy long before, but for your activity in locking the inner doors. They had to force the one from the kitchen... Incidentally, that was my own trouble, I couldn't get out of the morning-room!"

"You followed them in? How did you know?" Elizabeth had hardly taken in what had happened.

"Oh, no! I've been inside since seven o'clock!" The young man answered surprisingly. "You see, I was pretty sure that they'd make some kind of a shot at it to-night... I was watching in the shrubbery most of the morning and afternoon, and saw your various visitors arrive and depart, and Poldron wasn't looking pleased at all."

"Yes. You see, I'd intended it as a little surprise for the three gentlemen who've just left—something to divert their attention. I'd run a double loop of black thread round the support, leading into the drawing-room. When you were just going to come in, I pulled, and you naturally went in next door.

"I don't understand," Elizabeth said wearily. "Why are they doing this? What are we to do?"

"Suppose we have a look round?" he suggested. "It's a good idea to know what they've been doing... They may have left something."

In fact, it was almost in the kitchen doorway that Moreton, going in the lead of the party, stumbled over something heavy. Switching on the light, he saw that it was a pick-axe.

"Now, I wonder just what they wanted with that?" he asked with a slight frown. "You've no buried treasure here—nothing valuable or dangerous under the drawing-room floor? Not even a dead body or so? I was afraid not."

Leaving it where it lay, he examined the kitchen carefully, but there was no other sign of their presence except the bolt-sockets of the back door lying on the floor, and returning to the hall, he picked up the broken torch gingerly and looked at it close to the light.

"Did you happen to recognize any of them, Miss Hardwick? Either vaguely or to swear to?"

"I was almost sure," Elizabeth answered, "that one of the men was the elderly man who called this morning."

"Poldron? Yes, very likely... Incidentally, why did he call—if the question isn't impertinent?"

"He might call himself that," Moreton answered cautiously, "but he'd be lying! Yes, it was him I meant."

"He wanted to see the house. An old family servant told him about it. They met in the colonies—Australia, I think!"

"I don't. Bovey's not been within a few thousand miles of it. And the other two?"

"One read the meter, and the other demonstrated soap." Elizabeth smiled a little.

A thought seemed to strike the young man as he was collecting the scarf and pieces of cut rope which had been used to bind Elizabeth, in a tidy, methodical manner which somehow impressed her.

"You said something about an old family servant Bovey said he's met... I suppose he didn't happen to mention the name? He just said that? You see, the mystery is how they ever came to know anything about this house, and if Bovey knew the servant's name, he's evidently more information than just what's in the letter. It might help... But I suppose he didn't say?"

"Shoreham!" he murmured. "That's like Bovey. He's not even the brains to tell a good lie unless he uses some truth in it. Shoreham? The gardener's boy! That's the third time I've heard his name to-day... I'm beginning to be quite interested in him."

"Poldron first—then, well, I don't quite understand it." He ruffled his hair in a puzzled way. "You see, it was Mr. Kinoulton!"

"John? My cousin?" Elizabeth looked at him incredulously. "How did he come to speak of him?"

"I overheard him talking to Strelley—that's your pseudo-electrician, and a pretty tough egg. Strelley seemed to have been blackmailing him, and said he'd come from Shoreham."

"But it's impossible!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "John—he's the last man to have done anything that—"

"So it seemed to me. In fact, he told Strelley to take Shoreham a message telling him politely to go to hell!"

"Take him a message!" She repeated the words in amazement. "But Shoreham's dead—Bovey said so—a broken neck—"

"I wouldn't just say that Bovey's saying so made it true! But either one of them's lying or Strelley got in touch at a spiritualist séance... And of the two, I'd believe Bovey. You see, I know his way of lying, and it's surprising the amount of unnecessary truth he tells!"

"Went into the kitchen." Moreton caught her look of alarm. "Seeing if anything's missing, I imagine... There he is."

Her father in fact was coming through the kitchen door, and his face was absolutely devoid of care or worry of any kind. If anything, he seemed pleased with himself.

"I've wedged the back door, my dear!" he announced proudly. "It's getting late. There is nothing missing—nothing whatever. I think we must thank Mr.—Mr.—?"

"We had better thank Mr. Moreton again and go to bed," Hardwick said calmly. He turned to Moreton. "We are really very grateful to you, Mr. Moreton—very grateful indeed! Perhaps you would call to see us some time to-morrow?"

Moreton could only stare at him. The old man's coolness had taken his breath away. Three armed men had broken into the house, shots had been fired and a man wounded, and both he and his daughter had been bound and gagged—and he was dismissing the incidents as coolly as if they had been awakened by a cat knocking over the milk-jug.

"Of course!" Elizabeth moved to the telephone. "We ought to have thought of that before... I'll ring them at once—"

Hardwick spoke with a decision which startled both of them, and stepping quickly over, took the receiver from his daughter's hand and replaced it on the hook.

"But, Daddy, we must call the police!" Elizabeth reasoned with him gently. "You know, they always like to get to the scene of a crime as soon as possible. They might be able to find the three men..."

"No!" Hardwick repeated, and Moreton was surprised at the sudden forcefulness of his manner. "You are not to call the police. They are to know nothing at all about it!"

Moreton's eyebrows went up, and he opened his mouth as if to speak; then thought better of it and smiled at Hardwick unbelievingly.

"Daddy!" Elizabeth pleaded. "You must be reasonable— Mr. Moreton, don't you think we ought to ring up at once?"

To her surprise, the young man who had himself suggested the idea, seemed all at once to be backing out of it, if not actually supporting her father. He hesitated before he spoke.

"Well," he said. "It's always the right thing to do... The fact is, I'd expected that you'd be calling the police in, and if you were going to do it, the sooner the better. But if you do, I'm afraid I'll have to steal silently away—and I'd be glad if you could somehow avoid describing me. You see, my position's awkward... If you're asking my advice whether to call them in or not, I don't mind saying that at the moment I'd feel happier without them!"

"But, Mr. Moreton!" Elizabeth exclaimed; then her annoyance got the better both of her surprise and her friendly feelings towards her rescuer. "I suppose, of course, you would feel like that," she said coldly, and the next instant regretted it. Moreton's only reply was a wide grin, and she turned in exasperation to her father. "But, Daddy, you must see we can't just say nothing about it at all! It isn't safe—they may come back—"

"And, if they did, in some ways it would be very useful!" Moreton suggested happily. "We might find out then what it's all about—just what we want to know. I suggest that you leave it for a bit—"

"The police must not be called in at all, on any account!" Something in her father's voice made Elizabeth stare at him helplessly. "You don't know what it might mean. Elizabeth, you will promise me that? Not a word of what has happened must be known outside this house!"

CHAPTER VII
Moreton Takes a Scalp

IN all her life, Elizabeth could never remember hearing her father speak like that before. He seemed to have grown suddenly taller, and stood there commandingly, dominating the situation, in spite of the young giant beside him. With a flash of horror, the thought came to her that perhaps, as some people said, her father was indeed mad; then, with hardly less pain, a haunting suspicion that her father was afraid. But why should he be afraid of the police? The idea seemed to add new terrors to the mystery. She nodded dumbly before she could bring herself to speak.

"I am sure, Mr. Moreton, that I can rely upon your discretion too," he said persuasively. "I do not know how to express our gratitude to you for what you have done for us to-night—I gather at some considerable risk. Believe me, you would add to our debt enormously by saying nothing." A thought seemed to strike him. "You are staying in the village, Mr. Moreton?"

"Why, yes, I was!" It had only just occurred to Moreton that his chance of getting a bed in Malford Bishop at two o'clock in the morning was a slim one, and he sighed as he thought of the uneasy night before him. His best hope seemed to be to find a haystack, and even for haystacks he had little use in February. Hardwick seemed to read his thoughts.

"But, of course, you have not been able to make arrangements?" He spoke with an air of calm assurance which struck Moreton oddly as he thought of the old man's former hesitant gentleness. "Of course, you will stay the night with us... Is there a room ready, Elizabeth?"

Moreton tried to catch the girl's eye, but she kept her face deliberately averted from him. She answered in a scared, subdued voice.

"It only needs sheets. I can get those in a moment... Then I shall go to bed, Daddy, I'm tired... Good night, Mr. Moreton!"

Before he could answer, she was running up the stairs. Moreton felt uncomfortable. In many ways it would have suited his purpose admirably to stay at the Manor, and it would certainly have saved him an uncomfortable night. It was the thought of the girl which troubled him, and he wished he could have known what the expression on her face had meant. He ventured a mild protest.

"And I couldn't dream of letting you wander round all night, Mr. Moreton," his host interrupted. "Believe me, that is certainly what your leaving would mean. It is settled, then. And I am sure that you must be hungry. I must see what I can find you—bread and cheese only, perhaps." He smiled. "We do not live luxuriously, and our staff is limited. The fire, I think, is still alight in the study—the second door—"

"I know!" Moreton admitted with an apologetic smile. "I slipped in there when you were searching the rest of the house. I'm afraid I owe you an apology. I was behind the window curtains when Kinoulton drew them, and I couldn't help overhearing what you said—"

"But we said nothing that there was any objection to your hearing, Mr. Moreton," Hardwick replied after a slight pause, as though he was wondering what had passed after they had gone out to search the dining-room. Then he smiled. "You are resourceful, Mr. Moreton! Of course, the study was the one room which we did not search—and you slipped in when you had lured us into the dining-room! You would make a dangerous burglar, Mr. Moreton!"

Moreton tried to smile too, but the thought of Elizabeth's manner in the lodge that morning made the attempt only a poor success. He allowed himself to be shepherded into the study, and accepted a glass of really admirable sherry, realizing suddenly that he was almost faint with hunger. As his host vanished into the kitchen to procure supper, lighting a cigarette, he was conscious of utter amazement not only at his host's change of manner, but at the absolute calmness with which he had accepted the extraordinary intrusion of Moreton himself. In a life not free from incident, it was the most remarkable situation he had ever encountered, and he was still puzzling over it when his host returned with the tray.

"I'm afraid that this is the best we can manage," Hardwick apologized. "But I expect you are hungry, Mr. Moreton. Afterwards, perhaps you would tell me what has happened so far as you know? No, eat first, please!"

Moreton ate ravenously, and had made a heavy inroad upon a joint of cold beef before it occurred to him a little guiltily that in all probability it had been intended for to-morrow's lunch. He had seen enough of the household arrangements to guess that the girl's remark about their poverty was in no way exaggerated, and it was only too likely that Hardwick's courtesy considerably outstripped his resources. The thought helped to satisfy an appetite which had been outrageous, if not unreasonable, in view of the fact that since breakfast he had had nothing but a little chocolate.

Hardwick had sat in silence, gazing into the fire, and the red glow of the flames upon his aristocratic face and white hair made him strangely impressive. Only as Moreton finished he looked up.

"And now, if you have no objection, Mr. Moreton, I should be interested to hear your experiences," he said. "There are cigarettes at your elbow... Thank you, I rarely smoke."

As Moreton briefly recounted the events of the day, he listened in silence, and only twice interrupted, once with a slightly protesting exclamation when Moreton spoke of the encounter with Elizabeth in the lodge, and once when he was describing their visitors.

"Three of them I know to be," Moreton answered. "And Poldron and Strelley, at least, are dangerous."

"The fourth man—he was not a youngish man with heavy eyebrows, and a scar—a rather noticeable scar, on his face? You saw no one like that?"

"No, I'm sure I didn't!" Moreton answered, and he told himself that he was speaking the truth, though in the description there seemed to be something strangely familiar. "He was a sandy-haired man—rather undersized, if anything."

He said no more until Moreton had finished with his final account of the picking of the morning-room lock, and did not even express surprise that his guest should carry the necessary tools to turn a key on the wrong side of the door.

"Remarkable—very remarkable!" he commented at last, and his expression was absolutely unreadable. "You have had an extraordinary adventure, instead of your seaside holiday! We may hope, I think, that your troubles are over. They will hardly return now."

Moreton was far from sure of the fact, as he rose with his host and accompanied him up the stairs. A lighted doorway showed where he was to sleep, and Hardwick ushered him into a comfortable enough room, and looked round.

"You have everything you will need, I hope?" he asked, then bent down and seemed to feel at the keyhole of the door. "I am afraid that there is no key," he apologized after a moment. "The lock, in any case, is out of order, and sometimes sticks... But you are not nervous, I expect! You have everything?"

There were even pyjamas and a dressing-gown laid out on the bed, and Moreton nodded.

"Our thanks are rather due to you," the other countered quickly, and turned to the door. "Good night, Mr. Moreton!"

As the door closed behind the old man, Moreton sank into a chair in something of a daze. He was really tired but the thought of going to sleep was preposterous, inviting as the bed looked. He could not possibly let matters rest where they were. He proposed to wait only until the household was asleep before he let himself out of the house with a view to looking for any possible tracks which might show which way the three men had gone. Certainly he had hit one of them, perhaps badly, and there might be blood. He had noticed it, in fact, on the tiles of the hall, and it might be possible to follow the track farther. Without undressing, after a decent interval, he switched off the light and sat in the darkness, waiting until the house should be properly asleep, and his thoughts turned towards the girl whom he had met under such curious circumstances.

He was just thinking that it was time for him to be moving and had actually risen to his feet, when a sound on the landing outside made him pause. He heard the creaking of the boards as someone approached his door. Right outside the footsteps stopped. There was silence for a minute or two, as if whoever was outside was listening to see whether he was asleep. Suddenly the thought came to him that Hardwick's action about the lock had been unnatural. Surely he would know about the locks in his own house; about this one, in fact, he did know, for he had said that it stuck. Moreton's hand slid to the pocket of his coat, and he gripped his gun as he thought what it might mean. So far from looking for the key, he was certain that Hardwick had removed it.

All at once he heard a faint scraping on the outer surface of the door, then the sound of something being inserted into the keyhole. The lock clicked sharply in the silence, and he heard the footsteps retreating along the landing. He was locked in.

Moreton's tensed muscles relaxed, and it was with a smile that he slipped the gun back into his pocket. His host, it seemed, had no more sinister intentions towards him than to keep him in his room, and in the circumstances it was hardly unnatural if he was inclined to distrust a guest about whom he knew so little, and who had come to him in such suspicious circumstances.

Moreton did not resent the precaution in the least, but under the circumstances it was awkward. It looked as though there was no chance of his scouting round outside, unless the window proved to be practicable. He moved over to investigate. The rooms of the house were low, and it was no great distance to the ground. He felt convinced that he could have dropped without injury; the difficulty was that he would have needed a ladder to get back. He cast his eye down the wall of the house, but there were no convenient fruit-trees or trellis-work to help him. Suddenly he thought of the cords with which Elizabeth and her father had been bound. He had stuffed them into his pocket in spite of the unpleasant bulge which they made, and pulling them out he considered them dubiously.

There were four pieces, each nearly three feet long; not common rope, but a finely woven, thin cord which in spite of its slenderness looked as though it might bear considerable weight. Knotted together, they would give him about nine or ten feet, with the four knots to help him, though he suspected that descending or ascending might be a painful process. The cord could certainly be relied upon to stand the struggles of anyone who was tied up with it; whether it would bear his own twelve or thirteen stone remained to be seen. He fastened the pieces securely, and looked around for something to tie them to, finally selecting a heavy chair, which, if it did not bear his weight, could certainly not be pulled through the opening.

He leaned out of the window to look. The night was very dark, only a glimmer in the sky showing where a thick bank of clouds hid the moon, but he made out that his room was at one side of the building, looking out over flower-beds and the lawn beyond. The front door and the drive would be to the right, but it had been by the back that Poldron and the others had approached, and it was there that he decided to begin operations. Climbing on to the sill, he gripped the rope and began to let himself down. The fine cord cut his hands, but it was only a matter of a few feet, and he did not even need to drop to reach the soft mould of what seemed to be one of the flower-beds. Beyond it a grass-walk led along the width of the house, and turning to the left he began to follow it, the soft turf making his progress absolutely noiseless.

The end of the walk brought him to a high wall, pierced by a gateway, which appeared to lead into a vegetable garden. A short distance to the left again should bring him to the back door, and he was just about to open the gate when a movement farther along the path made him back quickly into the shadow of the wall. A man was coming towards him, and so far as he could see was making for the same destination. He wondered who it could be. It was hardly probable that Poldron could already be making another attempt after his repulse. It looked as though the man who was coming knew nothing of what had already happened, and in that case he could not belong to Poldron's party. Then a momentary glimpse of something outlined against the sky made him certain. It was the rotund crown of a bowler hat. The man approaching him must be Bovey.

Like Poldron, he had made his inspection of the house earlier in the day, and it looked as though he too had decided that the back was the part which was interesting to him. Moreton was puzzled by this. So far as his own knowledge of housebreaking went, he would have sworn that the drawing-room windows offered the most favourable spot, and after that the windows of two of the upper rooms which should be accessible enough by a drain-pipe. Bovey could, of course, know nothing of what had befallen the three unlucky burglars earlier in the night. He was approaching serene in the belief that the household would be comfortably asleep without a suspicion of his criminal intentions.

All the same, he seemed nervous. Moreton could hear his heavy breathing as he passed the gate, unconscious of the watcher's presence, and at another glimpse of the bowler hat he gave a little smile. It seemed a singularly incongruous headgear for a housebreaker. With the thought he had slipped through the gateway, bending low to avoid showing himself against the sky.

A few yards farther on, Bovey stopped. Moreton judged that he must be somewhere near the scullery window. It looked as if he had selected this as his means of entry, though it would be uncomfortably small for a man of his build. He was working with something on one of the panes, presumably a glass-cutter. Suddenly he started back, and Moreton heard his startled exclamation.

He had just seen the faint light which came through the window when Bovey backed away hastily, hesitated for a moment, and then started to move forward.

Something had frightened him. Clearly he meant to gain the drive on the other side of the house, and Moreton started in pursuit. He would have liked to have stopped at the window to investigate, but Bovey was going too quickly to permit it, and he could do no more than throw a hasty glance as he passed. White and ghostly in the dim light of a lantern which stood on one of the shelves, the figure of his host was standing there, with the pick-axe in his hands.

The brief glimpse explained the unfinished exclamation. Already scared, it looked as though Bovey, not expecting to find the household stirring, had thought the sudden appearance of Hardwick to be supernatural in origin. With an eye on the hurrying figure ahead, just visible at infrequent intervals, Moreton smiled as he thought that the mistake was not inexcusable, but he was puzzled by Hardwick's presence there at that time of night. He had not gone to bed, apparently, or he had got up again, for he still wore the dressing-gown in which he had so courteously performed his duties as host. Perhaps, in his desire to conceal the nocturnal visit, he had gone downstairs again to remove any possible traces which might be perceived by the maid next morning. The explanation accounted for the pick-axe, but Moreton was not convinced. Once he hesitated, wondering whether it would not be better to leave Bovey to his own resources and go back to look through the window again, but he decided against it. It was important to know where Bovey had his head-quarters, even if there was nothing else to be discovered; then, with Poldron at the inn, he should be able to pick up either of them if it seemed desirable.

To his surprise, it was not towards the village, nor yet across the fields that Bovey turned when they finally reached the end of the drive. He turned up towards the downs the way along which Moreton had followed Poldron that afternoon. That way there was not even a cottage along the lane as far as Moreton had followed it. An amazing suspicion began to grow in his mind, and as they reached the white-painted gate which led across the meadows, it was proved correct. Bovey's destination was Brinton Abbey.

There was something queer about Kinoulton, respectable landowner and magistrate though he might be. In the ordinary way, country houses did not form a rendezvous for the criminal classes of London, and yet Strelley had gone to the Abbey that afternoon, and Bovey was going there now. He was trying to recall the fragment of conversation which he had overheard between Kinoulton and his cousin, when he was aware that Bovey had stopped just in front, looking up towards a window in the black mass of the building where a light still showed.

Bovey stooped, picked something up and threw it. There was a rattling of gravel against glass, and the next moment the window was flung open. Moreton recognized the man silhouetted against the light. It was Kinoulton. He looked down as if trying to pierce the gloom below him. Bovey called softly.

"Quiet!" Kinoulton's reply was an angry whisper which nevertheless reached the place where Moreton stood. "The side door!"

Bovey's footsteps crunched on the gravel. Moreton could not follow without revealing his presence, but it was soon apparent that it did not matter. A dim rectangle of light in the lower wall of the house revealed itself as a door was opened. The next moment Bovey had slipped inside.

It took half an hour's unpleasant waiting after the last glimmer of light had disappeared to convince Moreton that Bovey was not going to reappear that night. The church clock had struck four when he finally regained the flower-bed under his window, and with an effort which was increased by a trophy which his foot had revealed to him as he stopped to examine the now darkened window through which he had seen Hardwick. Carrying it reverently, he laid the battered object on his dressing-table before he got into bed. It was Bovey's bowler hat.

CHAPTER VIII
The Man with the Scar

AT an unwontedly late hour Moreton got downstairs next morning to hear, from the smirking Mary, Hardwick's apologies for having been compelled to go out early. He had almost finished his breakfast when Elizabeth entered, and though she had evidently passed a bad night, she had recovered her self-possession and smiled at him as he rose to his feet.

"I hope you slept well, Mr. Moreton?" she asked, and he was too intent on looking at her to detect a warning note in the question.

"All night?" she asked, and still her smile, fascinating as he thought it, failed to enlighten him.

"All night," he assured her earnestly. "I am like that. A healthy mind in a healthy body, a clear conscience—"

"It seems hardened to minor untruths!" she retorted. "I saw you climbing in—and there was a bowler hat on the dressing-table!"

"That alters the position!" he admitted. "No, I haven't buried his body in the begonia-bed—"

"But your tracks are plain enough among the tulips. Six of them will never be quite the same again. And, another thing was that you forgot to pull in your rope. Don't you think you'd better tell me about it?"

"Every criminal makes mistakes," he began; then saw the seriousness underlying her smile and decided on the truth, with reservations. "Well, I didn't just feel like sleeping, so I thought I'd go down and see if the lad I plugged had left a blood spoor, thinking that by morning the maid would probably have cleared it up, or the rain washed it away. So having the rope handy, I popped out of the window to investigate. Going down is as simple as pie—"

The fresh, bright morning had dispelled many of Elizabeth's fears. Her laugh interrupted him and he looked up with assumed indignation.

"The hat cramped my style—I was afraid of knocking the bloom off. But before I got to the kitchen, I saw our friend Bovey, identifiable by Exhibit A., the said bowler hat, working, apparently with felonious intent, upon the scullery window. Something frightened him. I followed, and saw him safely home. Coming back I kicked the hat—there's a dent to prove it, and took it as the lawful spoils of war. Now he'll have to join the Blue Coat School or spend the bus fare to Midhurst for a new one—"

"I'd rather reserve my answer to that question until I knew why he went," he said diplomatically, and paused. He was thinking of the conversation he had overheard in the study. Her frown decided him. Kinoulton might want to marry her, but he had seen nothing to make him think that she reciprocated the feeling. If she loved the man, she would certainly disbelieve his story, and probably fly into a temper. For the sake of the test he felt ready to take the risk. "I'd better tell you," he said quite seriously. "He went to Brinton Abbey, threw some gravel at Kinoulton's window and was admitted by Kinoulton himself at the side door. He hadn't left when I did."

"If it was, I'm going mad," he answered. "Not that I should be surprised at that. Of course, it's absurd to think that Mr. Kinoulton could have anything to do with this collection. He can probably give you a perfectly reasonable explanation. And, for that matter, Bovey's harmless enough."

Elizabeth did not speak, and there was a shadow in her eyes as she looked unseeingly out across the lawn.

"You mustn't worry," he tried to reassure her. "We'll soon clear this up. I've all kinds of things planned for this morning—"

"You?" Elizabeth asked, but there was nothing forbidding in her tone. "I don't see why—"

"If you think at this stage of affairs that I'm going to slide off to Bognor and leave a nice little show like this to you, your father, and Mary, you'll have to guess again. I'd like you to let me help you, but if you won't—"

"I don't want you to go away," Elizabeth admitted reluctantly. "I still haven't thanked you for last night. If you hadn't come—"

"I don't think they'd have hurt you for a moment," he declared reassuringly, and hurried on. "By the way, I suppose no one noticed our little affair? The maid didn't—"

"Father tidied things up thoroughly last night," she said with a smile. "He's quite as usual this morning—he never even mentioned it except to tell me to apologize for him and—"

"Mary has done that already—I won't say gracefully, but I gathered the general tenor... Your father is one of the nicest men I have ever met!"

She smiled. "Naturally I think so," she said softly. "He asked me to say that you weren't to dream of leaving us until you had to go."

Moreton would have liked to know what her own views on the subject might be. As it was, he decided that he had better not accept.

"It's very good of him, but of course I couldn't trouble him—and you. I'll get a room at the local pub this morning."

"But I can get a room in the village somewhere," he said. "They'll begin to think that the place is having quite a winter season, for after all, the others have to put up there. By the way, the maid could hardly have missed noticing that I was here?"

"Yes, but she thought—" Elizabeth broke off and coloured. Although she hurried on, Moreton had a fair idea of what a young lady of Mary's romantic nature might think. "But really, you can stay if you like... In a way, I should feel safer."

"It would really be better all round if I could and I'd love to," he said. "But I wasn't sure—you see, I never explained that silly misunderstanding at the lodge yesterday. It was all my fault—"

"It doesn't matter—really it doesn't." A trace of fear crossed her face, and she laughed with a shade of bitterness. "After what Daddy said last night about not going to the police, I almost feel as if we might be criminals ourselves.... I've never known him like that. Whatever happens, you'll promise not to go to the police until he says that we may. I don't care whether you explain or not—or at least, you needn't feel under an obligation to do it.... What were you going to do to-day?"

"First, I thought I'd look at the lodge," he said eagerly. It had suddenly dawned upon him that the explanation was hardly less complicated than the misunderstanding. "I don't know if you saw that Bovey had cleared a bare patch on the floor?"

"Well, it seems to me that there's something funny either about the kitchen at the lodge, or the kitchen here. Bovey thought it was one—at first; and Poldron the other. It would be a good idea if we could rule out the lodge definitely. Then I thought of finding Bovey, wherever he is—of course, I couldn't go to Kinoulton's, but I'll pick him up somewhere—and putting him through a little third degree. I've more than an idea I might scare him into giving something away. I'll have to look up Poldron and find out what he's doing—and there are lots of other things." He hesitated. "I suppose you wouldn't like to step down and have a look at the lodge with me?"

"I should actually," Elizabeth answered sincerely, and for a moment he felt hopeful. "If you'd anything to do with housework, you'd understand why! But you'd understand too why I can't—at least, if you knew Mary! There'd be no lunch if I did!"

"Don't bother about lunch," he said persuasively. "We'll eat it raw, or something..."

"I must go, anyway." Elizabeth turned away firmly. At the door she paused. "But—you'll be careful?"

She was gone before Moreton could give her the assurance which was trembling on his lips that he had never before felt such good reason for looking after himself.

As he went down the drive, he kept a good look out for any lurking watcher, though he scarcely suspected any would be there; but he was feeling too ridiculously cheerful for any kind of serious investigation. There was no sign of anyone as he approached the lodge, but as a precaution he turned off the drive, and after creeping through the trees and bushes for some distance, managed to gain the lodge from the side. With revived caution, he stood listening for a moment after he had pushed aside the loose board; but there was no sound, and swinging himself up, he dropped inside.

He waited again for some minutes before he moved across to the opening in the wall which led to the kitchen; then, finally convinced that the place was empty, advanced eagerly. Enough light came through the board which Bovey had broken to show the place clearly, and he saw something which made him halt on the threshold and stand staring.

Not only the stone which Bovey had cleared of rubbish the previous morning, but nearly half the floor in its neighbourhood had been lifted. The stones had been thrown anyhow towards the fireplace, and at one or two places in the earth exposed there seemed to have been an attempt at digging, soon abandoned.

If anything had been concealed there, they could hardly have missed it. He felt a sudden disappointment. It looked as though, after all, their enemies had beaten them. Then, as his eyes wandered round the room, he felt a sudden hope. The mere fact that so much of the floor had been taken up seemed to show that the searchers had not found that which they had evidently expected was there. It looked as though they had first tried the stone which had been cleared; then, finding nothing, had as a forlorn hope tried farther afield. At any rate, it was no good looking farther there, but he left the cottage with almost a conviction that someone had had a great deal of hard work for nothing.

Half an hour later he was less certain. Inquiry had revealed that Poldron had left the inn; of the other two men he could hear nothing, though he made his inquiries as exhaustively as possible without attracting undue attention. It seemed as though Poldron and his two assistants had gone, and he was only too conscious that in all probability it was because they had achieved whatever they had come for. He had tried every conceivable place, without seeing a sign either of them or of Bovey, when, as lunch-time approached, he started back across the fields.

As he went, it was the problem of Hardwick's attitude which worried him most. His reaction to the burglary had scarcely been what one would normally have expected from a respectable householder, and if he had not expected it, he had certainly known a good deal more about it than Moreton himself did. There was the question which he had asked about the third member of Poldron's gang, which had reminded him of something at the time. Youngish, heavy eyebrows and a noticeable scar had been his host's description of a man he quite clearly might have expected to be among the burglars, and Moreton was certain that he had either seen someone answering to that description or had read words like them recently.

He was no nearer the answer, and his memory had still refused to function in this particular when he found himself nearing the Manor gates, and in spite of a belief that almost amounted to a certainty that the men for whom he was seeking had left the village, instinctively he slowed down and approached the stile cautiously, peering towards Kinoulton's house through the leafless hedge. Then he started. Against his expectation, there was someone coming, and he grinned a little as he recognized the hatless Bovey.

But the meeting in some ways was awkward. There was nowhere for him to hide, if Bovey elected to turn into the field-path. But the probabilities were against his doing so. Most likely he was making for the Manor, in spite of his fright there the previous evening; perhaps he even hoped to recover the hat which, if he had been seen, would be a damaging piece of evidence. All Moreton need do to avoid being seen, and all he could do was to bend down beside the stile, and he would be unperceived with any luck. On reflection, he was not sure that he minded meeting Bovey. His presence there in any case would be a considerable shock to that versatile criminal, and he knew enough at least to scare him badly—perhaps badly enough to make him talk. He decided to leave it to chance, and bending down as if to tie his shoe-lace, waited as the footsteps approached.

Fate had apparently decided in favour of a meeting. He heard Bovey turn off towards the stile, and looked up just as he had mounted the step, smiling pleasantly.

"Why, it's Ted!" he exclaimed in joyful surprise, "and all dolled up, too! Has your great-aunt died and left you a fortune, Ted—or were you lucky in the Irish Sweep?"

Bovey's jaw dropped into an expression of dismay. He hesitated on the top of the stile, and for a moment Moreton thought he was going to get down on the other side and run for it. The prospect did not worry him, and it seemed to occur to Bovey too that in a race he would have no hope; for he descended slowly and unwillingly, doing his best to return the smile.

"Why, it's you, Mr. Moreton!" he said in a hollow tone which was meant to be one of innocent surprise. "Who'd have thought of seeing you here? You quite startled me!"

"I don't wonder!" Moreton assented heartily. "Darned funny coincidence, isn't it? Hardly believable... When I looked up and saw you climbing the stile you could have knocked me down with a feather. 'That's Ted,' I said to myself. 'No, it isn't,' I answered. 'Ted is looking for mugs in dear old London, or maybe telling some American with a kind face about his uncle's will.' 'But it is Ted,' the first voice within me remarked, 'and I can't help wondering what he's doing here! And he's joined the hatless brigade!' And, you see, it was you, wasn't it?"

Bovey did not seem to appreciate this explanation. He looked distinctly nervous while it was proceeding, until at last his face assumed an aggrieved expression.

"I'm taking a holiday, Mr. Moreton," he said like a man who resents an unwarranted accusation. "There's nothing else, really. On my Bible oath! And I must say, I think it's a bit hard when I come down here to get away from it all that I should be followed. Why, if anyone saw you talking to me—"

"They'd only say 'What a handsome young man that is talking to the fellow without a hat,'" Moreton suggested modestly. "If you like, we'll lie down behind the hedge, or I'll tie a handkerchief over my face... But I'm afraid I've simply got to have a few words with you, Ted!"

"Sorry, I can't stop," Bovey said hastily. "I've got to go to Midhurst, and the train—"

"There are others," Moreton answered smilingly. "No, Bovey, I'm afraid we must have a word or two about one little matter. Why, I might even save you that journey to Midhurst."

Bovey looked at him sourly; then seemed to take his courage in both hands and faced his tormentor defiantly.

"See here, Moreton, you've nothing on me!" he declared. "And anyhow, we're in Sussex. It's no business of yours—"

"Of course, if you take that line," Moreton said in a shocked voice, "there's no more to be said. You'll go and buy that hat in Midhurst—" Bovey started perceptibly and Moreton continued, "And I, sorrowful at heart, shall seek out the Chief Constable, who's a great friend of mine—or maybe the local bobby would do, and I'll say, 'Look, here's a beautiful new bowler, with a London hatter's mark, size seven and an eighth. It belongs to a friend of mine, and he won't let me give it to him—'"

"I lost it." Bovey's face was full of dismay. "Lost it yesterday. Haven't an idea—"

"It was at the pub last night," he said finally. "And, if you ask me, Mr. Moreton, it was stolen! There were some queer characters there—"

"You must have felt quite at home! Then I suppose my eyesight's failing, and it wasn't you I saw just outside the scullery window at the Manor last night?"

"With these two eyes, Ted, I witnessed your stealthy approach through the kitchen garden, saw you pause, heard your exclamation of surprise or astonishment, and your final departure into the night. That is to say, my ears did the hearing part. And it wasn't you?"

"No, it wasn't!" Bovey answered with a firmness which surprised Moreton. "And you'll find out it wasn't if you try and frame me! I've an alibi, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

Moreton whistled softly, and as a matter of fact he was more than a little surprised at the line Bovey was taking. He had half expected his man to cave in on the mention of the finding of the hat, and that he should be ready even to defy an eye-witness seemed remarkable.

"So that's it!" he said. "I go to the Sussex constabulary and tell them of your presence at the Manor with felonious intent, and then you show me up. By the way, I didn't mention what time I found the hat... Funny you should have an alibi, isn't it? Are you sure you're not mistaken, Ted?"

"Yes!" There was confidence as well as defiance in the word. "I was with a gentleman all the evening, if you want to know—"

"And he sat up all night holding your hand?" Moreton suggested. "Didn't either of you go to bed, then?"

"Well, it's O.K., and you'll find it so, Moreton, if you try any games. Don't say I didn't warn you. And I can tell you, it's a gentleman whose word will be a darned sight better than yours—"

"Ted!" Moreton reproached. "Let us keep this conversation on a high plane! Let us have no rudeness and mutual recriminations! So, you mean, it would be his word against mine?"

"And which do you think they'd believe?" Bovey asked triumphantly, at what appeared to be a doubtful expression on Moreton's face. "Besides, it was dark. You couldn't have seen my face. And Kinoulton would tell you that I'd lost my hat."

"He seems a kind man," Moreton commented. He would have liked to call Bovey's bluff, but apart from the fact that he was by no means sure which way a magistrate might decide, if Bovey could really induce Kinoulton to perjure himself, he did not see that it would do much good at the moment. What he wanted was information, not to get Bovey arrested on a minor charge. His next words were sheer inspiration. "Besides, it wouldn't be my word against his, Ted. There was another man who saw you, and followed you right back to the Abbey, I saw him distinctly, and maybe he'd talk."

"Another man?" Bovey asked in some trepidation; then he smiled contemptuously. "You're just bluffing, Moreton. You can't scare me that way. Who was the man, if you say he saw me?"

"I don't know his name," Moreton admitted. "But I saw his face quite distinctly in the light from the scullery window. He'd be easy to trace with the description I've got. He was a youngish man, about twenty-five or thirty, maybe, with heavy eyebrows, quite noticeable. And there was a scar on his cheek—"

"No!" Moreton was startled by the scream which interrupted him. Bovey's face had gone the colour of paper, and his expression was one of utter horror.

He broke off suddenly, gave a terrified look round, and the next moment was running like a madman across the fields, leaving Moreton staring after him in bewilderment.

CHAPTER IX
A Step Forward

LUNCH proved distinctly an ordeal for Moreton, though he guessed that Elizabeth, with the help, or hindrance, of Mary, had made a special effort in honour of his presence. He was tormented by the innumerable questions which he would have liked to ask Hardwick but dare not, and not least that about the identity of the man with the scar of whom the mere mention had sufficed to send Bovey almost into hysteria. Hardwick, for his part, seemed to have forgotten all about the events of the night, and talked with enthusiasm about his favourite subject, for the furtherance of which he was just writing another pamphlet.

Moreton listened rather absently, gathering only that his host, while approving of putting criminals to death, and even advocating an extension of the penalty, objected to the reasons for which most people were sentenced, and to the methods of execution. What he would have liked to know was why his host objected to the police being informed of the burglary; what his views were about Kinoulton and a dozen more things; but such diffident attempts as he made towards the matter on his mind were side-stepped so skilfully that he could not for the life of him tell whether it was intentional or not.

Elizabeth said little, but it seemed to Moreton that she had something on her mind. It was not until her father excused himself on the ground of having to work at the pamphlet that Moreton was able to learn what it was.

"Have you found anything?" she asked eagerly, as the door closed behind her father. "Because I have!"

"Yours first!" she insisted. "Probably it's much more important than mine.... It just struck me as curious."

"Unfortunately, mine's not important," Moreton answered gloomily. "So far as I can see, Poldron and all his gang have vanished—"

"They haven't," she interrupted. "One of them—the small man—was watching the house this morning. I saw him in the paddock."

In one way the information was a relief to Moreton. It showed that after all the enemy had not scooped the pot and made good their escape; but he thought suddenly of the danger to which the girl might have been exposed.

"Got down an old shot-gun of father's and loaded it," Elizabeth replied with a calm which rather surprised him. "If he'd bothered us, I'd have tried to fire it—I've never shot anything in my life. But he didn't. I told Mary that I'd seen a rat."

"It wasn't far off the truth," Moreton commented. "It shows they've not gone, anyway. I rather thought they had. The whole floor of the lodge kitchen has been taken up, or nearly all of it. I thought that they might have found whatever they were looking for and bolted."

"There's nothing else, except that I met Bovey. He recognized me, and I tried to scare him into telling me all about it by saying I'd go to the police about last night. He said he could prove an alibi—through Kinoulton!"

"Not about not having been here, but about Kinoulton? Yes, I rather think I do. For some reason, it looks as though he could make your cousin back up any lie he liked to tell. It sounds absurd, I know, but—"

"I don't know that it is," Elizabeth said slowly. "I like John, and yet—I hardly know how to explain it, but I've always had the impression that he's too good to be true. I mean, he's so terribly upright and honest and so on that I can't help feeling it's—well, a sort of reaction against another side of him... Perhaps you can't understand."

"Yes, I think I do." Moreton frowned. "But it's going to be a job to discover the side he's reacted against, if it's necessary. He seems to be ace-high with everyone round. And whatever your father knows about him—and I'm sure he knows something—from the way he treats him it can't be much to his discredit. There was one other thing, by the way. Last night when I was telling him all about it, your father asked if one of the men was a young man with heavy eyebrows and a scar on his face. I've seen, or heard of, that man somewhere, in some connection, I'd swear, but I can't place him. Just to see how he reacted, I told Bovey that the man had been following him last night. He nearly had a fit, and positively bolted. I'm open to bet that he's left the village by now."

"But then, he seems to be a fairly timid sort of criminal." Elizabeth smiled. "I put him to flight by the mere mention of Poldron—"

"And yet, he faced Poldron, and he faced me," Moreton pointed out. "Why should he howl with terror and run away from this man with the scar? Whoever this man may be, I'm pretty sure that he's not in the same class with Poldron."

"Poldron?" Elizabeth asked suddenly. "Wouldn't you think that he'd be afraid to come down here and threaten me? Supposing we had gone to the police—?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth admitted. "I was almost sure that it was his voice—"

"You heard it only once before; then half a dozen words or less, when you were in an excited state. Of course, I don't doubt it was he. I'm putting the case for the defence. You'd nothing else to go by?"

"From what you told me, he didn't threaten a thing which wasn't perfectly legal... I know he's crooked; the police know—but he's never been convicted. And that's all he thinks we know. As a matter of fact, he's wrong. I saw him with Strelley. You saw Strelley in the house, from your description. That would be suspicious, even in court."

"You know—that description," she said at last, "the man with the scar. I've an idea it's vaguely familiar to me too—that I've seen someone like it."

"That's the man I'd like to put my hands on. I've a feeling he's at the bottom of this, somehow, but unless he puts in an appearance—!" He shrugged his shoulders. "But your discoveries?"

"I'm not sure what they're worth," Elizabeth admitted. "I noticed them in the scullery. There's a curious sort of circle drawn on the window—"

"That's Bovey's work!" Moreton explained. "When he was scared off last night, I'd have sworn he was using a glass-cutter. He was going to take that bit right out, you see, and unlock the catch."

"I see. But the other thing's queerer—after what you said about the floor of the lodge kitchen. One of the flagstones of the floor has been loosened."

"It moved when I trod on one corner," she explained. "And there were marks on it where someone had been using a tool... I couldn't lift it."

"The pick-axe!" he exclaimed. "That was what they used it for! May I have a look? You see, we don't know just how long they'd been at work when you interrupted them. So far as I can see, Poldron and the little man were working in the back here; Strelley was on sentry-go in the hall. When they heard the noise, they came out—"

"I'll have to get rid of Mary," she suggested. "I'll send her down to the village for something. If you'd wait—"

Moreton nodded, but he was in a fever of impatience as he paced the room restlessly. The men might only have started work when they were interrupted, and the presence of the small man watching suggested that they had not got what they sought. Whatever was, or had been, hidden in the scullery must be the reason for all that had happened, and it might still be there. It seemed a long time before Elizabeth returned.

"She'll be gone at least twenty minutes," she announced. "The pick-axe they left is there ready. Shall we—?"

Moreton started forward eagerly. His exploration of the house before Kinoulton had heard his footsteps in the hall had familiarized him with the position of the scullery, but as he was about to turn into it, Elizabeth stopped him.

"Not that one," she said. "We call that the back kitchen. It's a sort of extra place with a sink in. This way."

The room into which the door opened was almost bare, except for a few utensils on the stone shelves which ran round two sides of it. A glance showed him that this was certainly the window which Bovey had attempted the previous night, and he wondered if the attempt had been inspired by any exact knowledge. Elizabeth pointed to a flagstone in the very middle of the row against the wall which was not occupied by the shelves. Moreton remembered that it was in a corresponding position that Bovey had cleared the stone of rubbish in the lodge kitchen. He stooped down to examine it carefully.

There was no doubt that the stone had been moved. The mortar which had held the edges had been freshly broken away, and a piece or two of it were lying on the floor. White scratches showed distinctly on the surface at one point, as though the pick-axe or some similar instrument had slipped while whoever was trying to raise the stone had been endeavouring to get a grip. It was a large slab, over two feet long by some eighteen inches wide, but with a decent lever it should be possible to raise it. He seized the pick-axe which rested against the wall, and inserted the point eagerly.

The crack was narrow, and twice the iron slipped on the stone before he could get a purchase. Then he felt it grip. Exerting all his strength, he saw the edge lift slowly an inch or two. There it stuck. Elizabeth sprang forward and added her weight to the thrust. The stone gave suddenly, and falling back displayed the cavity beneath. Together they bent over it. The hole was empty.

Elizabeth gave a little cry of disappointment, and if he had expressed his feelings, Moreton might well have done the same. The very difficulty they had had in lifting the stone had made him hope that the interruption the previous night had come too soon for the intruders. He stooped down in silence to examine the place.

The reason for the difficulty in raising the slab was soon explained. It was neither the weight, nor the fact that the cement had still held which had resisted his efforts, but a mere point on the side of the slab which, by the replacement of the stone in a slightly different position, had rubbed against the side. There was no reason why previously it should not have been lifted with ease, once the cement was broken; but this in itself would be a matter to occupy some time. The slab had evidently been laid on the wet cement covering the whole floor, and it must have stuck considerably. The pointing round, he noted, was independent of the cement bed, and must have been done at some later time; and it differed from that between the other stones.

But it was the hole in the middle of the space exposed which chiefly excited his interest. It had been hurriedly scooped out, to a depth of two or three inches, when the cement was still almost liquid, an irregular oblong about a foot across, and in the cement he could still see the impress of some square object which had been placed there before the surface on which it stood had set. Then he saw something else. Still visible probably after a space of years, he could just make out the impress of three fingers of a human hand. He looked up at Elizabeth.

"You haven't any putty—plasticine?" he asked. "No, of course not... A candle?"

Moreton had carefully blown from the finger-prints the dust and fragments of mortar which had fallen into them, but as he took the candle and moulded the wax between his fingers until it was soft, he was doubtful. Probably the grain of the cement was too coarse for an identifiable impression, but one after the other he carefully filled the marks with the softened grease, pressing it down gently. He caught Elizabeth's inquiring glance.

"You never know!" he said. "That's the signature of the gentleman who made this hole. It might tell us a lot—if it's legible."

"It's barely possible that you can make out the ridge pattern of the fingers from those impressions. They were made at the same time as the hole—at the time whatever has been removed was put here. Of course, it's a chance in a million."

The face of the wax when he removed it was scarcely encouraging. He seemed to see traces of a pattern of sorts, but if it was to be deciphered it was a matter for experts, and he felt that even they would have their work cut out, but emptying his cigarette case he stowed them carefully away. As an afterthought he took a cast of the corner marks of what he guessed had been a box, noting that they were not entirely plain, but showed traces of ornamentation, and finally measured the space which the box must have occupied. He stood up as he finished and eyed the hole gloomily.

"Then we've found nothing?" Elizabeth asked with disappointment in her voice. "I had hoped—"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. We know a good deal more than we did. We know, for example, that whatever Poldron and Co. are after is not a hoard of Spanish gold buried in the days of Queen Elizabeth or anything of that kind. It is contained, or was, in a small square box with four-inch sides or thereabouts with ornamented corners, and probably consists of papers—unless it's jewellery. It, with the fingerprints of the gentleman who made the hole and put it there, has been here since this floor was last relaid; the whole floor, not this flag only. Since then, this stone, I believe, has been lifted and replaced, and mortared up with a different mortar, when the other was already dry and crumbling. Last night it was opened again."

"I don't know." Elizabeth hesitated. "It must be a long time. Not since I was a child, certainly. But I do remember it being done. I know I stepped on the cement work to make footmarks!"

"One might do that at any time after one could walk. But that can be found out. When it is, we shall see what happened about that time—in the local paper files. Of course, there may be nothing there. But still, we can find out who was here, and so on, and whether they opened this stone or not last night may not have mattered. Because, as I've said, I'm pretty sure that it had been lifted once before and replaced. It's possible that the box wasn't there to find. If they keep hanging about, we can be fairly sure that that's so. The question then is, who has it?"

Elizabeth glanced at her watch and started. It had only seemed a minute or two since they had come there, but, in fact, they had been there nearly half an hour.

Moreton nodded. Even with the leverage of the pick-axe it was no light task coaxing the stone back into position, and he heaved a sigh of relief as it finally thudded down. With his hands he carefully swept up the small chips of stone and mortar which their operations had left, and even dirtied over the stonework to hide the new scratches. He tested the stone with his foot. It was now quite firm.

"We've made a better job of it than they did last night," he commented. "If it had been like that, you might never have noticed before the dust filled the cracks."

He was rinsing his hands at the sink when they heard the back door open, and drying them hastily on his handkerchief escaped just in time to avoid Mary in her rather boisterous entrance.

"Gentleman to see you, miss!" he heard her say to Elizabeth. "At the front door—the one what called yesterday."

Though he was hidden from Mary's sight, through the doorway he could see Elizabeth's hesitation. She threw a quick glance towards him and he nodded vigorously.

"I will let him in myself," Elizabeth decided. "You had better see about tea. We will have it early—after the visitor goes."

In the hall, Moreton whispered hurried instructions as the bell rang loudly and impatiently.

"See him in the morning-room," he suggested. "I'll hide there—there's a cupboard. Used it last night. Try and find out all you can—and humour him!"

Elizabeth nodded assent, and as Moreton dived for the door of the room he had suggested, moved across to admit Poldron. Moreton's presence gave her confidence, but her pulse quickened a little as she opened the door. With the same hateful look of false benevolence, Poldron stood on the doorstep, and he doffed his hat politely as he saw her.

"I am extremely sorry to trouble you, Miss Hardwick," he said. "But I should be grateful if you could spare me a minute or two? I have an important matter to discuss."

"If you think it worth your while, Mr. Poldron," Elizabeth answered coldly. "I told you yesterday—"

"Much has happened since yesterday, Miss Hardwick," he said. "I will keep you ten minutes at most."

And as she stood aside, he stepped into the house and followed her across to the room where Moreton was hidden.

CHAPTER X
Poldron Calls Again

ONCE established in an arm-chair, Poldron showed himself slow in coming to the point. There was a long pause during which Elizabeth felt the eyes behind the glasses studying her intently. With the knowledge of Moreton's supporting presence, she met them boldly, and was surprised that on the previous day she could have been so frightened of the man.

"About my offer of yesterday," Poldron hesitated. "You have not, by any chance, reconsidered your decision?"

Elizabeth looked at him in some surprise. Whatever else she thought about him, he had not appeared to her to be a fool, and after her reception of him yesterday, it seemed remarkable that he should ask such a question.

"No?" Poldron pursued. "I feared not... I should, of course, have been glad if I had been able to persuade you, but I had scarcely hoped for it.... I am afraid there was a slight misunderstanding between us yesterday, Miss Hardwick. I am an old man—old enough, at least, to be your father, and, I am afraid, rather spoiled by getting my own way too often. I must beg your forbearance."

Elizabeth found her temper rising rapidly. She was disgusted by the man's hypocrisy. It was with difficulty that she remembered the need for a tactful handling of her visitor with a view to acquiring any possible information.

"It appears to me, Mr. Poldron, that after what has happened, I have shown considerable forbearance in even seeing you again!" she answered with some heat. "However, if I am to take that as an apology for your threats—"

"I beg that you will," Poldron answered eagerly. "I was disappointed, I confess, when Mr. Hardwick had led me to believe that you would take another view of my offer, and a little hurt by, shall I say, a lack of cordiality in your manner. I am greatly relieved that you are now ready to forgive me. I only regret that I cannot prevail upon you to alter your decision."

"My answer on that point is absolutely final." Elizabeth was puzzled by the man's behaviour. The whole conversation appeared to be a waste of time, and she wished that he would come to whatever point he wished to make. "May I ask if there is anything more you wish to say?"

"The rent which I offered yesterday was generous, I thought," he replied slowly. A maddening deliberation seemed to characterize all his speech, and Elizabeth found it intensely exasperating. "But, if it will make any difference to your decision, Miss Hardwick, I am prepared to go even higher."

"It is a charming place—charming!" he said rapturously. "A perfect example of the old, unspoilt, English country house.... Believe me, Miss Hardwick, I have travelled, perhaps, more than most men, and always, in spite of the beauties of other lands, I have found my heart returning to some such place as this... If you will not rent it, Miss Hardwick, perhaps you would consider an offer to purchase? I think I could make an offer which would appeal to you—"

"The house is neither to let, nor for sale, Mr. Poldron," Elizabeth said impatiently. She was rapidly forgetting Moreton's advice to encourage him to talk. "If that is all—"

"If your mind is absolutely made up, Miss Hardwick, that, I am afraid, is all!" Poldron said surprisingly. "I cannot say how disappointed I am. The house seems to me to be the very embodiment of peace and restfulness. And yet, I suppose, even here you have your exciting incidents—things which are a nine-days' wonder in the village, leaving, perhaps, some who nourish a more permanent emotion."

Metaphorically Elizabeth pricked up her ears and all at once remembered that she was supposed to draw her visitor out. It sounded as though his words had been ground bait to get her to say something about the raid during the night, and she decided to disappoint him.

"Very few, I am afraid, Mr. Poldron," she replied. "I have lived nearly all my life here, and I am afraid I have never had an experience which I should regard as very exciting."

"No?" he asked in mild surprise. "But then, ideas of excitement differ strangely, Miss Hardwick... Now, I myself can think of at least one night in this very spot which must have had its terrors and its thrills for those taking part."

His audacity rather took Elizabeth's breath away, and for a moment she could not find words with which to answer.

"But then, perhaps you were too young to recall it clearly," Poldron continued with perfect calm. "Surely, unless I deceive myself, it was at Malford Manor some years ago that a fire at a cottage had a tragic result? I think I even remember the name—Storeham? No, Shoreham... They were said to be gardeners here, and I imagine the ruined lodge at the gate is the scene of the tragedy. Three, I believe, met their deaths—the mother, father, and a son. That is right, is it not?"

Elizabeth felt herself getting badly out of her depth. She could not conceive what was Poldron's purpose in turning the conversation in this direction, but he had evidently done so deliberately. And the burnt-out lodge and the Shoreham family were undoubtedly somehow connected with the mysterious happenings in the village which had apparently had their origin in her father's letter to The Times. She decided to see what more he had to say.

"Only the father and mother died in the fire," she corrected. "The son, Jim Shoreham, had left some time before. Only yesterday we heard that he had gone to Australia."

"To Australia? That is interesting. No doubt it was a friend of yours who told you?"

"No, a stranger—though I believe that he is acquainted with you, Mr. Poldron! A Mr. Buckfast. He called yesterday afternoon. It seems that he and Shoreham were neighbours in Australia, and he had a curiosity to see the house. My father showed it to him."

"That was rash." Mr. Poldron shook his head reprovingly. "Your father, Miss Hardwick, from what I have seen of him, has too simple a nature to deal with the ruffians of this world. It is quite possible that he had some ulterior motive in wishing to see the house—he might even have been planning a burglary! If I were you, I should be very careful how I locked up at night and should not leave the house empty for a few days. But no doubt you are adequately protracted?"

Elizabeth's indignation at his hypocrisy nearly made her blurt out an accusation, but just in time the thought came to her that in all probability this was exactly what Poldron was playing for. He must be trying to find out whether he himself had come under suspicion of the attempt made during the night. With the thought came the realization of the difficulty of her position. To say nothing about the burglary to Poldron would be practically equivalent to accusing him of it; whereas, if she told him, she would have to account for the fact that it had not been reported to the police.

"It is odd that you should have said that, Mr. Poldron," she said after a brief pause in which she felt his eyes boring into her from behind the glasses. "As a matter of fact, our house was broken into last night. Fortunately nothing was stolen."

"You were already on your guard, no doubt?" Poldron asked. "You had wisely arranged for some additional protection?"

Elizabeth could see traps on every side. Poldron, of course, knew that it was neither herself nor her father who had fired upon them; she had somehow to account for the presence of Moreton, and felt that she could have done it more easily if he had not been listening.

"Not exactly arranged," she answered, "but it just happened we had a friend of ours staying here—a distant relative. He held them up at the point of a pistol, but they ran away."

"Of course, such miscreants are generally well aware that in the hands of a law-abiding citizen a pistol is not necessarily a very deadly weapon. For a pistol to be a serious threat, Miss Hardwick, it is necessary for the man at whom it is aimed to know that you are going to use it—and that you can shoot moderately straight. Otherwise, I can assure you, the chances of danger are not to be weighed against a long term of imprisonment."

"No doubt you speak with authority, Mr. Poldron!" Elizabeth retorted in spite of herself. "As a matter of fact, our friend did fire, and hit one of them, but they got away."

"Which only bears out my argument," Poldron returned smilingly. "No doubt the police are already on the track of those responsible—perhaps they have even caught Mr. Buckfast?"

The difficulty which she had foreseen now faced her, and she had to think desperately for an explanation.

"The matter was not reported to the police, Mr. Poldron," she said at last. "My father, as of course you would not know, holds strong views about the present penal system. He refused to allow me to telephone to them."

"Some people would say that his action was reprehensible in allowing to remain at large criminals who might turn their attentions to others who do not hold the same views as your father," he said. "Personally, I cannot say that I blame him. It is indeed admirable to find a man whose opinions are strong enough to make him act upon them even in the face of personal loss or danger. Your friend—it has just occurred to me that perhaps it was he with whom I travelled down yesterday. A Mr.—Mr. Chesterton, I think he said that his name was?"

"No." Obviously, Elizabeth thought, Poldron was fishing for the name of the man who had spoilt their plans, certainly with no pleasant intentions towards him. She must not give Moreton's right name and the association of a village in Devonshire suggested the final choice. "It could not have been. His name is Hampstead."

"Evidently I was mistaken." Poldron glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, started and made as if to rise. Then a thought struck him, and he pulled out his own watch and compared it before settling himself down again in his chair. The action did not escape Elizabeth, and she wondered what it meant. Suddenly she felt a desire to laugh. The idea of sitting down calmly to discuss with a burglar exactly why his attempt on your house had not proved successful was ridiculous. And still she did not know why Poldron had come. "Your friend—no doubt he is staying for a few days?" he continued.

"Yes." Elizabeth seemed to catch a note of anxiety in his question. "He's out just at the moment," she explained untruthfully.

"Ah," Poldron nodded, "Sussex in the springtime—even in March—it is a charming spot. You make me regret the more that you will not entertain my offers. Even the loneliness of this place appeals to me—though I should scarcely have thought that it would to you, especially after your last night's experiences. And, who knows? Mr. Buckfast may try again!"

"The curious thing is that he said he was a friend of yours!" Elizabeth could not resist the dig. Poldron only raised his eyebrows.

"But, of course, these people often claim acquaintance with those whom they do not know, in order to attest their respectability," he said, and again Elizabeth felt the humour of anyone using Poldron's name for such a purpose. "No doubt you told him that I had called? You see, that explains it."

"But I am sure that he knew you," Elizabeth persisted. "He started distinctly when I mentioned your name."

"Then, quite possibly, on some previous occasion he may have tried to swindle me!" Poldron suggested. "I myself, Miss Hardwick, have on various occasions been the recipient of the attentions of such men as Mr. Buckfast seems to be." He smiled. "I need hardly say that up to date they have not proved successful. I am a man with some experience of the world."

Probably the last statement at least was true, Elizabeth reflected, but she could not think what she was supposed to say. Unless he had come merely to find out whether they suspected him of being behind the burglary, or to inquire about Moreton's presence, it did not seem to her that Poldron had achieved very much by his visit. Most of the information she had given him was known to him already; most of the rest was untrue, but he seemed perfectly satisfied, and though his own ideas of conversation seemed to have run almost as dry as her own, he still continued to sit there.

"Was there anything else you wished to see me about, Mr. Poldron?" she asked finally, after a considerable pause.

"Nothing, Miss Hardwick, nothing!" he said. "If you are sure you do not see your way to assent to my suggestion—"

"I am afraid my answer to that is absolutely final!" Elizabeth said definitely. It was inconceivable that this was the real reason for his visit, but he had advanced no other. She was genuinely puzzled as she conducted him to the door.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hardwick!" He beamed at her, and somehow she felt certain that his good humour was not assumed. "If you should change your mind, perhaps you would write to this address?"

With the slip of pasteboard in her hands, Elizabeth stood gazing after him as he went down the drive, and it was a minute before she closed the door slowly and turned to find herself face to face with Moreton, whose expression was hardly less bewildered than her own.

"Now, what do you think he wanted?" Moreton asked, ruffling his hair in a thoughtful gesture.

"That's just what I was wondering myself," Elizabeth answered. "You could hear what was said?"

"Every word," Moreton assured her. "I could even see him most of the time, through the keyhole. And for all I could make of it, it might have been an ordinary social call!"

"I didn't learn a thing from him," Elizabeth frowned a little. "Perhaps I didn't manage him properly—"

"You were perfectly all right. In fact, I thought you showed great presence of mind. But if you didn't get much out of it, neither did he—and yet he seemed satisfied. One thing I noticed—he mentioned the Shoreham family too!"

"But he let the subject drop almost instantly," Elizabeth pointed out. "As soon as I mentioned that Buck-Bovey had called. Then he started to talk about Bovey, and the burglary."

"Nevertheless, as soon as I've a spare moment—and it looks as though I shall have this afternoon—I'm going to look up all I can possibly find about that gardener's boy... I wonder what you can tell me?"

"Very little, really. You see, I was only about ten or eleven when he went away. I just remember him as a big, rather scowling young man with pimples, who used to help his father about the garden. I never liked him much. But then, his father used to spoil us terribly, and he himself never lost a chance of telling nurse about our depredations—which were many. So probably that explains it."

"Yes, quite suddenly. I had some kind of an idea that there was trouble, because of the way people looked when you mentioned him—children aren't half so easy to deceive as most people seem to think, but I never knew just what it was. Then two years afterwards the lodge was burnt down, and Robert—that was his father—died trying to get his wife out of the house. It would have been terrible, but I don't think I understood properly. After that, Peter and I used to get in through that broken board and imagine things there. It had a kind of creepy feeling—"

"He and my mother were drowned together. I was just seventeen. It seemed to change my father entirely.... Do you know, one of the things which surprised me last night was that my father suddenly seemed to get younger—to be more as he was when I remembered him and my mother together? And this morning he is just the same again."

"I was thinking about that, too," Moreton said thoughtfully. "It seemed to me as if there was some kind of an emergency he had to rise to, and he did; then he slipped back again. And the emergency seemed to have something to do with telling the police."

He saw the look of pain on Elizabeth's face, and hastened to change a subject which was becoming difficult.

"Only that he used to play cricket—and that's not much use, I'm afraid. My father and the Vicar used to talk about the matches, and I seem to remember Shoreham as a scorer of marvellous flukes, but of course—"

She broke off suddenly at Moreton's sharp question. He had half turned towards the kitchen door and stood listening. Immediately she heard the sound which had attracted his attention. It was an irregular tapping noise, almost as though someone was doing a step-dance on the stone floor.

"We'd better see." Moreton's hand went to his pocket, and she saw the gleam of the pistol. "It may be nothing. Or—"

Elizabeth followed him as he tiptoed towards the door. The knocking continued, but she could hear nothing else. Outside the door, Moreton waited a moment; then, with his gun ready, he flung it suddenly open. Elizabeth looked over his shoulder.

Mary, indeed, was the cause of the mysterious knocking. She was sitting in a chair, beating a tattoo with her heels on the flags. Her hands and legs were securely tied to the back and arms of the chair, and there was a gag in her mouth. The only way in which she could attract attention had been to tap on the stones, and she might have been doing it for some time before Moreton heard her. In a moment he was across the room and was cutting the ropes while Elizabeth struggled with the knot of the scarf round the girl's mouth.

It was some minutes before it was possible to extract anything intelligible from her, and Moreton's presence seemed only to alarm her to the verge of hysteria. With a word to Elizabeth, he went outside, pausing on the doorstep to glance round keenly, and half expecting to be greeted by a shot. But Mary's assailants, whoever they might have been, had vanished completely, leaving no sign of their presence, and satisfying himself that there was no one in the neighbourhood, he returned to the kitchen to find that the servant had partially recovered her senses.

"Mary was attacked by two men who came to the door," Elizabeth explained briefly. "It was almost immediately after she came in. They knocked—"

"It was that electric man, mum!" Mary burst out. "You was right about him, miss! And he seemed a nice young fellow, too. Him and another man. Quite polite and gentlemanly, he was, at first. Said that he was sorry to trouble us, but his firm wasn't satisfied, and that he'd have to look at the wiring. I told him just what you said, miss, and we argued a bit. Then he says: 'I'm coming in, anyway,' he says. 'You're not, then!' I told him. 'What's that over in the corner?' he says in an excited kind of way, and I looked round to see. Then, miss, the other man whipped something over my face and—and—everything went black, miss, and I knew no more!"

Elizabeth smiled at the reminiscence from one of the novels with which Mary was accustomed to beguile her leisure. Moreton's face was serious.

"He was a little, shortish man, sir, and he walked with a limp. I noticed it particular, and I thought he had rheumatics bad. My dad suffers that way. And the electric man—"

"We know about him," Moreton broke in firmly. "But the other—what colour was his hair? His eyes? What kind of a face had he?"

"I—I didn't notice, sir!" Mary confessed. "I was looking at the other one most of the time.... You see, he did all the talking, miss—"

"Betwixt and between, sir, I should say. Not hardly either, if you know what I mean. He had a nasty little moustache, sort of sandy coloured, and a cap—"

"Yes, I expect you could call it light," Mary assented doubtfully. "But you see, sir, I couldn't see it because of his cap!"

"You didn't notice anything about his eyebrows—they weren't specially noticeable?"

"Law, sir, I hadn't time to see things like that, you see, I was arguing with the electric man—"

"I wouldn't just say he was either, sir. About middle-aged, or rather younger, if you know what I mean."

Temporarily, Moreton gave it up as a bad job. He had thought that there was a chance of hearing something of the heavy-browed man who had interested Hardwick and frightened Bovey into instant flight, but the chances had been against it, and the frightened girl was evidently in no state of mind to give a description.

"Yes, sir. It was then I noticed that the man limped. They stopped at the place where the path turns off the drive. One of them looked at his watch, and they talked a minute. Then the electric man waved his hand, like as if he had seen someone he knew and they started to come towards the door. Then I remembered what you said yesterday, miss, so I didn't properly open the door, only just sort of peeped round the corner."

"I suppose it was, sir, I must have done it unconscious like while we was talking. It just shows you can't tell. As soft as butter, he was, at first. 'You're too clever a girl to keep us waiting like this,' he says. 'We won't do any harm, and we're in a hurry. We just want to take up a flagstone—'"

Moreton did not hear what happened next. With a bound he was out of the room, and with Elizabeth at his heels, made for the scullery where they had made their investigations that morning. He knew what he would find. As Elizabeth joined him he pointed in silence. The stone had been lifted and lay on the floor beside the hole which it had covered.

Mary had retold her tale several times without adding anything material by the time he rejoined them in the kitchen.

"But the police will soon find them, won't they, miss?" she inquired, and the words caused a little frown to come to Elizabeth's face.

"O.K.," Moreton announced cryptically. "As for the police, we'd better see about them.... You'll be all right here, Mary, won't you? You can keep the back door locked, and sing out if you're frightened. But they won't come back. Probably they're miles away by now."

He wore a worried frown as he faced Elizabeth in the morning-room a minute later.

"It's no use; the police have got to be called now," he said reluctantly. "We could keep quiet about last night's affair, but that girl won't about this. Don't believe either threats or promises would make her—I know the type. She'll tell everyone she meets for the next month—several times! And so we've got to tell the police first. You'll have to persuade your father."

Elizabeth nodded. In the ordinary way, she would have felt confident in her ability to perform this, but as she remembered her father's emphasis last night she was not sure.

"If he won't consent, we'll have to tell them, anyway—and that means I'll have to leave you for a bit.... Not very long. It depends what luck I have. Of course, I'll have to wait until the bobby's been. It's not him I worry about."

Elizabeth was silent. In the last few hours she had forgotten all about what he had said at the lodge, and his promise that he had an explanation had seemed sufficient.

"Yes, I'll have to go for a few hours.... Look here, we've got to call the police, but there's no need to tell them anything that matters. It's a simple enough affair. Two tramps come to the door, attack the servant and get frightened away before they can steal anything. It's not worth anyone's trouble, and no one will expect that they'll still be about. As a matter of fact, probably they won't. Poldron will have provided for their getaway—and anyhow, they won't spill a thing. They needn't know about last night. They needn't know about the flagstone, or Poldron or Bovey. You needn't tell a single lie.... Even Mr. Hardwick couldn't object to that."

"Of course!" Elizabeth's face cleared. "I'm sure it will be all right. In fact, probably they'll leave us alone."

"No." There was a significance in Moreton's voice which made Elizabeth look at him in surprise. "That's just what they won't do. They know the box has gone. Then someone's taken it. As they'll see it, it must be either Bovey, or you, or your father. The danger's only beginning. Whatever it is, they want it badly—"

"That's it.... Look here, I'm sending for a gardener and odd jobs man to stop here while I'm away. He's a friend of mine, and he'll keep guard. There's a room he can have somewhere."

"He'll be as quiet as the grave. Don't worry.... And now, if you'd explain to your father—"

Moreton was very thoughtful as Elizabeth left him. He was positive that the discovery that the hiding-place was empty meant danger to the girl and her father. Poldron's plan had been well arranged. They must have located the flagstone the night before. To lift it would be the work of only a minute or two. Someone had been outside to signal the fact that Elizabeth and her father were out of the way, and perhaps, not having seen the maid's return, they thought that the house was otherwise empty. In any case, they had counted on her stupidity to let them work without violence. Only her unexpected obstinacy had prevented the whole thing going through.

His thoughts broke off abruptly. From the hall he heard a startled cry. As he dashed for the door, Elizabeth's voice came to him.

CHAPTER XI
A Tragic Discovery

WHITE-FACED and trembling, Elizabeth was standing in the doorway of the study. She stood aside to let him enter.

Moreton looked about him. It was a pleasant enough room, comfortable with books and dark oak furniture, and lit by a large casement window overlooking the drive. Scattered over the big desk, a pile of foolscap sheets seemed to show where the vanished Hardwick must have been writing. One of the long sections of the window was open, and the draught made the papers flutter uneasily. Moreton closed the door and moved over to the desk, stopping hurriedly as he almost stepped into a pool of ink which came from an overturned pot. It seemed to be the one sign of disorder in the whole room.

He glanced at the top sheet of the pile. The writing ended abruptly in the middle of an uncompleted sentence, which presumably indicated the point at which the kidnappers had made their appearance. He bent forward and touched the sheet. The ink smudged under his finger.

"Why, the ink's wet!" he exclaimed. "He can't have been gone two minutes. In this draught—"

Moreton did not move. He looked at Elizabeth sympathetically; then his eyes wandered over the empty room.

"Follow whom?" he asked. "And where? We've no notion where they went.... But wait a moment, Miss Hardwick—"

"Wait!" Elizabeth flamed. "When they must be taking him away while we are talking. The police—I'll call them!"

"No!" Moreton stood with his back to the door and met the blazing eyes of the girl squarely. "Listen a moment, Miss Hardwick! A little while ago, we were doubtful about calling in the police about the attack on your servant. We decided, reluctantly, that we had to—but that was a simple lie to tell. This—" He waved his hand round the empty room. "It means telling everything. And you remember what your father said last night!"

"But—are we to do nothing?" Elizabeth retorted desperately. "No matter what happens now, we must—"

"One moment!" Moreton begged. "I don't believe it's necessary to call the police at all about this. Almost certainly your father left of his own free will!"

"The whole plan was obviously to come here and look under the stone without trouble," Moreton explained. This was not to be a hold-up. Poldron was to see that you and your father were out of the way. The others were to come to the back door. Probably they hoped that Mary would be foolish enough to let them do as they wished without question; or perhaps they had seen her go to the village but had missed her on her return. It was not intended to attack even her, unless it proved necessary. If they had meant to resort to violence, why should Poldron come to you and merely talk? The girl was tied up; we are to suppose your father powerless. Why did they leave you alone?"

"You were in the morning-room—you heard no noise. Poldron was with you—did he seem to be listening?" Elizabeth shook her head. "Do you think your father would walk out, even at the point of a gun, and without trying to give a warning, leaving you at their mercy? And he walked out of the window. He was not carried. See that vase? To carry anyone through, it would be necessary to move it, but one could step over it. And if he did not go that way, why was the window open?"

"Oh!" Elizabeth turned from the window and faced him fiercely. "You talk—but we must do something! Can't you see—"

Moreton had moved to the open window. Suddenly he looked out and uttered an exclamation.

"It is as I said!" Moreton answered. "Your father left the room alone, of his own free will. Look!"

Stepping to his side she followed the direction of the finger which pointed to the flower-bed beneath the opening. Three or four footprints were clearly visible. She looked at them uncomprehendingly, and turned to Moreton with an agonized inquiry in her eyes.

"The footsteps of one man only," he explained. "And they are your father's. I noticed yesterday in the garden that he wore those peculiar rubber-heels."

Elizabeth's face lightened suddenly. The evidence was plain enough. Only her father had jumped down from the window; there were no other footprints.

"I suggest that your father recognized one of them, and went out to speak to him—perhaps Poldron; perhaps someone else. There was the man with the heavy eyebrows of whom he spoke.... I think we should send for the police, but tell them for the moment only about the attack on the girl. By the time they come, your father may have returned."

"If you will telephone," Moreton suggested, "I will go out and see what has happened. There may be tracks of some kind... Say as little as possible to the police. Wait until they come. Then, if your father has not returned, you will use your own judgment."

As Elizabeth turned towards the hall, Moreton swung himself up on to the window-ledge, and stepping over the vase poised himself for a second on the sill before he leaped. The jump carried him clear of the flower-bed, and keeping his eyes on the ground in the hope of any chance track, he moved towards the drive.

There was nothing to guide him, and he felt the hopelessness of his task. But the only side on which a car could approach the Manor was that on which the lane from the village ran, and in the absence of tracks, he could see nothing else for it than to follow the drive in this direction. The worn surface was packed hard, and though here and there he could see the marks of footprints, there was no reason for supposing that they were notably fresh.

In the intervals of looking at the ground, he cast quick glances round, on the alert for any possible antagonist or watcher. He had almost reached the gate when he stopped abruptly, staring into the bushes near where he remembered the little path through the shrubbery joined the main drive. For a single instant the figure of a man had appeared between two clumps of rhododendrons. Momentary as the glimpse had been, he had recognized the tall figure of Kinoulton.

Moreton hesitated. Kinoulton, surely, could not be connected with the gang which had just tied up the maid. And yet, there was his association with Bovey to be explained. One of the criminals was actually being harboured by him, with what motive he could not even guess with any great amount of probability. His chance of finding any of the other men was negligible, and he had a sudden desire to know what it was that had sent this respectable Justice of the Peace skulking among the bushes. In a moment his mind was made up, and he started for the entrance to the path which Kinoulton was presumably following.

He had to walk a yard or two along it before the clumps of bushes allowed any view, and not knowing whether Kinoulton had seen him, he had to move silently. But as he rounded the bend, it was quite evident that the other was aware of his presence. His quarry was running up the path at full speed towards the house, and as Moreton looked, he reached the end of the path and turning sharply to the left across the lawn, seemed to be making for the front door.

It was the excitement of the chase more than anything else which made Moreton start in pursuit, and as he did so he told himself that he was being a fool. Kinoulton was Hardwick's cousin; it was absurd to think that he should have an illegal reason for going to the house. In all probability the reason for his visit lay in the fragment of conversation which he had overheard the previous night, but the thought was no comfort to him. He wondered what Elizabeth really felt about her cousin. From the few words she had said, he hardly considered it likely that she would give the proposal a favourable reception, but it was hard to say. Kinoulton was well off; he was presentable enough, and he admitted to himself, by no means a bad sort of fellow so far as he had seen. Even if she did not love him, she would not be the first woman by some millions to choose that way out of a home life which must be the reverse of comfortable—

His thoughts broke off sharply. He had run halfway down the path and reached a space where the first shoots of bluebells were showing in a little clearing. At his first glance he stopped as though he had been shot, and stood staring at the dark shape which lay on the edge of the shrubbery. It was the body of a man, sprawling in an awkward abandon which caused the truth to flash upon his mind even before he saw the bleeding wound in the back of the head where something had struck him with a fearful force. Before he reached it, he knew who it was. A moment later he looked down at the still white face of Bovey.

Bending down, he felt the wrist. There was not a flutter of pulse, but the body was still warm. The man was quite dead, but he had hardly been dead five minutes. Perhaps even as Moreton had left the house, his assailant had had his hand raised for the blow, and the weapon was not far to seek. A bar of iron as thick as his thumb and with a curious spiked top lay on the ground a foot or two away. For a moment Moreton was puzzled before he remembered where he had seen something like it before. It was one of the iron railings from near the burnt-out lodge.

For a moment he stood staring stupidly at the body. He was not unused to violent death, but he felt taken completely by surprise. He had laughed when Bovey scurried across the fields at his mention of the heavy-browed man. That the crook had good reason to be afraid of someone was all too clearly proved by his death. With the thought, he realized suddenly how many people there were who might be responsible for the man's murder.

First, there was Kinoulton, about whose conduct he had already been wondering. Had it been mere chance that he had come along this path? Supposing he had been going down it towards the gate after killing Bovey and had caught a glimpse of the stranger coming down the drive. He would have had no option but to take to the bushes or to run up the path towards the house. He might well have chosen the latter course. And if his hospitality to the dead man had been dictated by blackmail, as Moreton half thought it was, there was a motive for the crime as well as the opportunity.

Equally, it might have been Poldron or one of his henchmen or— He started at the thought, and tried to dismiss it from his mind. The suspicion was too awful to entertain, and yet Elizabeth's father had for some reason darted from the house only a few minutes before, just about the time when the murder must have been committed.

The awkwardness of his own position flashed upon him. He had no immediate means of proving his identity; that, with his suitcase, remained in the cloakroom at Victoria Station where he had left them. He could scarcely see himself explaining to a village policeman of orthodox ideas exactly what he had been doing during the past few days. And even if his fear of the law was no more than for the temporary inconvenience which it might cause him, the explanation might well bring more permanent troubles in its train.

He realized that he was wasting time, and kneeling down beside the body began to make an inspection. The skull, he guessed, must have been absolutely shattered by the weight of the heavy railing falling with a crashing force, and in all probability Bovey had never known what killed him. Certainly his face was peaceful enough, but that meant little. Moreton had known the same composure upon the face of men who had died in agonies.

One thing was immediately apparent. The body did not lie as it had fallen. From the muddy mark on the forehead, he judged that the murdered man had pitched straight forward on his face. But whoever had struck the blow, or someone who came after him, had thought it worth while to turn the dead man over and rifle his pockets. The linings of several were hanging out, and a little pile of objects which had been taken from them lay on the brown earth beside the body. He glanced at it, noting that it contained only ordinary objects, which, on a first examination, were hardly likely to prove helpful, unless by some chance the thief or murderer had left fingerprints, say, on the resplendent imitation gold watch which had lent an air of opulence to Bovey's impostures. Without much hope he felt in such of the pockets as were not obviously empty. They had all been cleared out. He glanced again at the pile. The note-case, lying open, showed a considerable sum, besides the silver coins which the heap contained. It had been no ordinary thief who had searched the pockets.

All at once his eyes widened into an expression of horror, but it was nothing in the heap which had shocked him. It was the brown earth just beyond. For there, stamped with a terrible unmistakable clearness was a footprint, and he recognized at once the curious pattern of the rubber-heels which Hardwick wore.

For a moment he stared at it, and his hand went out in an instinctive movement. He had the impulse to sweep the earth over the print, to hide the damning evidence that Elizabeth's father had been on the scene of the crime and had been there only a few minutes before or after it was committed. He had to restrain himself with an effort, and force himself to search the ground for further evidence.

There were other prints. Hardwick had evidently come straight down the path from the direction of the house, had stood for a moment or two, moving a few paces to one side or the other, and had finally dived into the bushes. Moreton wondered where the tracks led, and whether they could be followed, but he had not been the only man there. There were other footprints, less distinguishable in the absence of the glaring trademark which made Hardwick's so plain. They might be Kinoulton's, but to a first inspection it looked as though there had been more than one man. It seemed almost as though all the possible people who might have had a motive for murdering him had congregated round the body, and had duly left their mark.

The murder was not going to be an easy matter to solve. Hardwick and Kinoulton at least, had both been alone, unless they had met each other. They could hardly prove an alibi at the time the blow was struck. Poldron also had left the house alone and might or might not have been joined by his two fellows. In any case, Moreton could not see them giving evidence in any way which would not clear them.

In the weapon itself there seemed no clue. Anyone could have plucked it from the rotten fastenings of the railing. And yet, as he thought of it, the place from which it had been taken tended to clear Hardwick. The ink had still been wet enough to smudge on the paper which he had found in the study. It had been thick, inky writing, written heavily with a broad pen. It all depended on how long it would take to dry whether Hardwick could have got to the lodge-gates in time and returned to approach again from the direction of the house. With a feeling of relief he felt that it must be impossible. The mere chance that he had touched the paper might be the means of clearing Elizabeth's father.

The sound of heavy footsteps in the drive broke in on his thoughts. It must be the policeman whom Elizabeth had summoned, but a feeling of caution restrained him from calling out, and instead he began to worm his way through the bushes towards the drive, though there was something in the sound of the heavy boots on the gravel which made him certain that it was indeed the constable. Then the sight of a familiar blue helmet completely reassured him, and he started to his feet and hailed him.

The policeman started. He was not one of the elderly comfortable policemen, often associated with rural areas, but a young man with an alert, intelligent face, though Moreton fancied that he saw in it a trace of uneasiness. Quite probably it was the first crime of any importance that he had had since he came to the village, and he was anxious to acquit himself well at it. Moreton could sympathize with the feeling. One of the most genuinely useful jobs in the world, he reflected, a country policeman's must, at times, be one of the dullest. He reflected grimly that the young man would be making a good start.

For a moment he stared at Moreton, a little suspicious of the sudden apparition from the rhododendron bushes. Then he advanced to meet him.

"Murder," Moreton answered simply. "There's a dead man in the bushes there—killed about ten minutes to quarter of an hour ago."

"Ten minutes?" The constable betrayed an unofficial surprise. "Why, Miss Hardwick only rang me up—"

"I know," Moreton interrupted. "I've just this minute found him, when I went out to see if I could see any trace of the hold-up men. I know the man. He's a crook, known among other things as Ted Bovey. The London police can give you quite an extensive dossier. He arrived here yesterday—"

Moreton heard the undertone of suspicion and swore to himself. He would have to waste time establishing his identity at a moment when every second might be important.

"You come from London, sir?" the policeman asked, and this time the suspicion was less veiled.

"Just a minute, sir!" the constable intervened, maddeningly. "I'd better have a look at the body—if it's there as you say!"

Exactly what Moreton might have said in his haste was spared the constable, for both of them turned at the sound of a car coming up the drive. It drew to a halt beside them, and a window was lowered.

"Ah, there you are, Wroxton!" With a wave of thankfulness Moreton recognized the voice. "We nearly beat you to it—"

"Donald!" The military-looking man's eyebrows rose in undisguised astonishment. "What the deuce are you doing here? I've had no word. You young devil, you're poaching! I'll complain—"

"I came down for a holiday," Moreton said with resignation, "and if this is a fair specimen of the quiet of the English countryside, give me Poplar or Limehouse! There's a murder in the shrubbery, and Lord knows what else! Can I have a word with you quietly?"

"That's happened since. At the rate things are going there may be another at the back of the house by now. Could I speak to you alone a minute?"

"Certainly!" Grasmere opened the door of the car, and Moreton caught a glimpse of the uniformed superintendent beside him. "Of course, you would be on the spot, you lucky dog! And here were we thinking that our turn-out was pretty smart. Let's walk on a step."

Out of earshot of the surprised constable and the policeman in the car, he turned to Moreton.

"And now, tell me all about it!" he commanded. "My police will want you hung, drawn and quartered for this!"

CHAPTER XII
Kinoulton Defends Himself

ELIZABETH had barely replaced the telephone receiver when the urgent ringing of the front bell roused her from reflections which were the reverse of cheerful. She started nervously at the sound of it. It could not be the police already, and Moreton would hardly have rung the bell. The sudden fear came to her that it must be someone bringing bad news of her father. She almost flew to the door, easily outstripping Mary who was loitering in the kitchen doorway hoping that she would do that very thing.

It was John Kinoulton who faced her on the doorstep. His face was pale, and he was breathing heavily. There was a look in his eyes of something like despair, but Elizabeth interpreted his agitation as confirming her own fears. She swayed backwards and almost fell, clutching at the door just as his arm caught her.

A look of utter bewilderment spread over Kinoulton's face as he led her gently into the drawing-room.

The colour returned to her face, and she drew away instinctively from the arm which still supported her. "I thought—I thought you were going to tell me he was killed!" she said. "Of course, you've not heard... We had a burglary here last night—three men got in, and tied up my father and me. Mr.—Mr. Moreton had seen them get in, and rescued us. He wounded one, but the others got away. This afternoon they came again. One of them kept me talking, with Mr. Moreton hidden listening; the others must have overpowered the maid and tied her up. Then I went to see Daddy. He wasn't there, and the window was open. They must have got him—"

For some reason Kinoulton seemed to find some difficulty in answering the question.

"In the garden," he answered at last hesitantly. "He certainly wasn't a prisoner—"

"I should wait a little, Elizabeth." There was something in his manner which frightened her. "I've very little time, I think... Could you tell me more about this burglary? It's urgent that I should know. What did they come for? Did they take anything?"

"We don't know," Elizabeth answered. "There was something hidden in a box under a flagstone in the scullery. We found the place this morning, but they hadn't got it. They looked for it this afternoon. We knew already it was empty."

"It's gone, then," he murmured to himself. Then he looked up at her. "You said we—your father and you?"

"Mr. Moreton?" Kinoulton repeated the name in a peculiar accent. "You know him well?"

"Only that he helped us last night," Elizabeth confessed. "He's been very good."

"With excellent reason, perhaps!" Kinoulton said bitterly. "Of course, it would suit his plans being inside the house, where he could gain your confidence—"

"John!" Elizabeth's indignant exclamation silenced him. "You don't even know him—"

"I know of him on good authority," Kinoulton said grimly. "Sorry I can't produce the witness in evidence but—" He laughed mirthlessly. "You'll have to take my word for it!"

"What—what do you mean?" In a flash Elizabeth remembered her own earlier suspicions at the lodge. "You can't mean that—"

"I mean that in this case, he's acted like a cad and the dirty spy he is!" Kinoulton burst out. Then he regained his self-control. "Sorry, Elizabeth. I may be wrong. I hope I am. If not, you'll have the proof pretty soon. It's not worth our quarrelling about it. They may be here any minute now.... Elizabeth, you knew why I was coming here?"

Elizabeth's eyes dropped for a moment; then she looked up and met his devouring gaze firmly.

"Yes, John. Daddy mentioned it to me, this morning. But, John—please, don't! I don't want to hurt you."

"It was like that, then?" Kinoulton laughed grimly. "Well, that's all to the good, as it happens!"

He caught the look of amazement on her face, and before she could find any question to ask, went on:

"Elizabeth, I'd not come to propose to you today," he said rapidly, like a man who feels that his resolution may give way before he has finished. "I knew your father had mentioned it—and I'd come to make it clear why—why I couldn't!"

"But, John—" Elizabeth began. If she did not love him, she liked him well enough for the pain in his voice to wring her heart. "John—"

"Wait, Elizabeth! I've not much time.... You wouldn't remember me when I came back from the war. I was a young fool, went the pace, and got in with some pretty doubtful companions. In the end, I looked like going to gaol. I should have done, but for one thing. My grandfather died, leaving all his money to me, whereas, of course, it ought to have been shared between the two sons. Theodore would never accept any, though I offered—"

"Well, I'd done something—something pretty bad. Then I settled down here—hardly left the place again. People didn't know how near I'd been to a smash. I built up a reputation as a respectable member of society. I tried to make up for it. Then I fell in love with you. Theodore knew, of course. I don't know how much, but I should say a good deal. I went to him last night, and asked him point-blank whether he still held it against me. He said he didn't and that I might ask you. I was coming to-day..."

His voice contained a world of bitterness as the words trailed hopelessly away. Elizabeth could only look at him. She stretched out a hand and laid it on his arm.

"Don't!" he burst out violently. "I'm sorry... Last night as I was on my way here a man came from one of my old associates and asked for help. It was a gentle form of blackmail, really, and I told him to go to the devil... I'd hardly got back from seeing your father when another man came. He showed me just what I was up against, but, as a crook, he struck me as being a fairly decent sort of chap. We fixed it so that he was to work for me, to try and beat the others. It was he who told me about Poldron. I believe he was playing fair—"

"Mr. Bovey!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Or Buckfast... Then they frightened him away?"

"Moreton nearly did, but he was game. He came back to tell me, and though he was frightened of the other lot, was going to have made a last attempt to help me. He tried."

"He's lying dead out in the shrubbery. They'll accuse me. They're bound to. And I can't explain a thing without making everything worse. So, you see, you've only just escaped a proposal from a man who's going to be hanged for murder!"

"John!" Elizabeth cried out. "You don't think—that would have stopped me, if—if I'd loved you. Of course, I know you're innocent! John, I—I don't know if I love you or not, but I'm fond of you. If you like, I'll—"

"That would be absurd," Kinoulton replied with quiet finality. "And I should only be letting your sympathy run away with you. No, Elizabeth, I just wanted—I wanted you not to think too badly of me. I hardly hoped that—"

The opening of the front door interrupted him. He rose to his feet quietly, and stood facing the door.

"The Chief Constable, the Superintendent, a sergeant and the local bobby. Also your friend, Moreton. Quite an imposing collection, isn't it? My luck's in! It might have been only Moreton and the local bobby! Why, I shall do it in style—"

As Colonel Grasmere entered, followed by Moreton and the sergeant, her hand stole to his arm, and this time he did not shake it off.

"Miss Hardwick—" the Chief Constable began as he stepped into the room. Then his eyes fell on Kinoulton, and he started. "Kinoulton! You here?"

Kinoulton smiled. "Perhaps you thought I was already speeding en route for South America?" he asked.

Colonel Grasmere winced. Knowing Kinoulton well, his task was not a pleasant one. He looked at Moreton appealingly.

Moreton himself was terribly conscious of Elizabeth looking at him. Her face was set, and her eyes hard and challenging. He felt a pang as he saw the hand which was slipped through Kinoulton's arm, then a sudden rage against the man who could allow her to get into such a position when he must have known. He stepped forward firmly.

"And who is this—this gentleman, Grasmere?" Kinoulton asked with polite contempt.

"I thought you knew, Kinoulton. I'm sorry about this, but—" He broke off, and motioned to Moreton. "This is Inspector Donald Moreton, of the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department. I have asked him to help me in this matter..."

"You—you—" Elizabeth's eyes were blazing as she looked at Moreton. "I—I could kill you!"

Moreton bit his lip and paled a little, but he did not speak. Colonel Grasmere stepped forward.

"Elizabeth," he pleaded. "Won't you let me, as an old friend of your father's, advise you to go. This isn't the kind of thing—"

"That a young girl ought to hear?" At her smile, Moreton's eyes dropped. "Don't think I'm not grateful, Colonel Grasmere.... But, as it happens, I have every right to hear what you have to say. Mr. Kinoulton and I are engaged."

"No!" It was Kinoulton who protested, and Moreton's anger died away. "You can't—"

"Kinoulton, you know as well as I do that you're not bound to say a thing," he said after a pause. "Only, if you have any explanation, for Heaven's sake let us have it!"

"Am I to take that as the official warning?" Kinoulton asked with a scornful glance at Moreton.

"Yes," Moreton answered emotionlessly, but he kept his eyes away from Elizabeth. "You understand that you are not compelled to answer any questions or make any statement. In the event of a charge being made, anything which you may say may be used in evidence. You understand that?"

"Perfectly." Kinoulton's voice was as coldly expressionless as his questioner's.

"The body of Edward Bovey, known also as Charles Buckfast, whom we understand to have been staying at your house, was found by me in the shrubbery of this garden, twenty minutes ago. While going down the drive in the direction of the lodge-gates, I saw you in the path which leads past the place where the body was discovered. I entered the path and followed you. You had disappeared in the direction of this house when I found the body. Tracks in the soil in the neighbourhood of the body appear to resemble those which I saw made by you in the mud of a portion of the path. Do you wish to volunteer any explanation of these circumstances or not?"

"I do," Kinoulton answered calmly. "Buckfast, as he was known to me, had, as you say, been staying at my house. He was an old friend of mine, and was helping me in a matter which I am not prepared to disclose. It necessitated his visiting the Manor to see Mr. Theodore Hardwick. I did not know at what time he was coming. This afternoon, I had decided to call on Miss Hardwick. Reaching the lodge-gates, I saw a man approaching down the drive whom I was anxious to avoid meeting—"

"Excuse me," Moreton intervened urgently. "It is an important point. Mr. Poldron was alone? Was he hurrying?"

"He was alone, and walking quite slowly. I slipped into the side path through the shrubbery to avoid being seen. About half-way to the house, I saw the body of Buckfast lying face downwards on the grass—"

"Absolutely. I was afraid that something had happened to him. I went towards the body, and saw a wound in the back of the head. An iron bar, apparently torn from the railings of the lodge, lay on the ground nearby. Being unable to explain my business with Mr. Buckfast, and knowing that he had a criminal record, I was afraid that I should be accused of the murder. I retraced my steps towards the lodge, saw Inspector Moreton, and thinking I had not been seen, decided to go up the path again. I passed the place where the body lay—"

"Yes!" Kinoulton paused, then corrected himself hastily. "That is to say, I suppose it was. I did not look at it. I proceeded along the path and reached the house, to which I was admitted by Miss Hardwick, with whom I have been since."

"During the time between your first arrival at the lodge and when you entered the house you saw no one except myself, Mr. Poldron, and the dead man?"

"No one!" Kinoulton's words rang out resolutely enough—too resolutely, Moreton thought, and with a sinking heart he thought what that might imply. Kinoulton waited. "Have you any further questions?" he asked.

"The business which led to your association with the dead man—you are not prepared to say what it was?"

Moreton glanced at Grasmere. The Chief Constable hesitated for a moment before asking:

"No," Kinoulton hesitated. "I was of the opinion that he was going back to Town. In the morning he had met Inspector Moreton, who recognized him, and he gave me to understand that something the Inspector had said had frightened him."

He had been extremely rude to my cousin the day before!" This time it was Elizabeth who started. "Frankly, I was afraid that if I met him we should quarrel."

"No. I saw him for the first time yesterday when he was pointed out to me by Buckfast."

"Buckfast expressed surprise at his presence. He seemed to be afraid of the man—"

Kinoulton broke off suddenly, and his eyes were fixed upon the open doorway. Instinctively Moreton and the Chief Constable turned to look in that direction, as Elizabeth darted forward.

"Really, Elizabeth, my dear!" Hardwick protested, and smiled a greeting to Colonel Grasmere. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Colonel. I hope—"

"Mr. Hardwick," Moreton's voice broke in upon him, "we have been worried about you. Can you tell us where you have been?"

"Worried?" he asked. "Oh, I went for a little walk—just for a little walk. Elizabeth, we should see about giving these gentlemen some tea!"

CHAPTER XIII
Complications

FOR a moment Colonel Grasmere stood staring blankly at Hardwick. Then he took a quick step forward.

"The police are in the drive still. Didn't you see them? Didn't they ask you anything?"

"I came in the back way," Hardwick explained with a trace of bewilderment. "Police in the drive? Surely nothing has happened?"

The Chief Constable stared helplessly, and it was Moreton who attempted to explain.

"Buckfast, the man who called on you yesterday, has been found murdered in the shrubbery, Mr. Hardwick."

"But—but—!" Hardwick looked from one to another of the group in utter amazement. "But, Mr. Moreton—"

"Inspector Moreton!" It was Kinoulton who broke in, and Moreton flushed at the implied accusation. "Of the Criminal Investigation Department."

Hardwick only bowed to show that he had understood the introduction. He looked at Moreton without a quiver.

"But surely, Inspector, there is some mistake!" he protested. "Murdered in our shrubbery!"

"I am afraid it is true, Hardwick," Grasmere said. "We're asking everyone to account for their movements. We have heard what Kinoulton had to tell us... Of course, you need say nothing unless you wish... I hardly know how to explain, Hardwick—"

He looked again helplessly at Moreton. Conscious of the fact that Elizabeth's eyes had suddenly widened with a new fear, and that she was looking at him with unconcealed horror, Moreton steeled himself to the task.

"You will understand, Mr. Hardwick, that in such circumstances suspicion naturally falls upon everyone in the vicinity who could conceivably have committed the crime," he explained. "We know that you left your room some time previous to the hour at which the murder was committed. We know that your footprints appear in the path through the shrubbery beside which the dead man was found. If you wish you may make a statement to us, but you are under no obligation to do so. In the event of any charge being preferred, anything which you say might be used in evidence."

"No! No!" Elizabeth burst out wildly; then as she burst into tears, Kinoulton's arm stole round her comfortingly.

"Of course! I understand perfectly!" Hardwick answered almost with enthusiasm. "Such procedure is usual, is it not? Let me see.... We had lunch at the usual time, I think, and after lunch I went to my study to work. I was half expecting John to call, and I couldn't concentrate very well on what I was doing. I had written a few sentences, and was in the middle of one of them, trying to think of the right word, when I happened to glance out into the garden, and I saw Mr. Poldron walking down the drive. I wondered what he wanted. He had called the day before with an offer to rent the house, and I supposed that he had come to renew it, or perhaps to suggest some other arrangement. I thought that my daughter had been a little harsh with him the day before, so, as it was the nearest way and I was afraid I should not overtake him, I opened the window and jumped out—"

"One moment, Mr. Hardwick!" Moreton interrupted. "When you saw Mr. Poldron, was he alone, or had he anyone with him? And was he walking quickly or slowly?"

"He was alone, Inspector, and walking quite slowly. I am not so active as I was, but I found little difficulty in overtaking him. I walked down the drive with him. He was still very anxious to take the house, and kept on pressing me all the way. He turned across the fields at the end of the drive, and then, as it was a nice afternoon, I thought I would walk a little farther—"

"One moment, Mr. Hardwick." Moreton intervened again, but he had to force himself to put the question. It was after a moment's pause that he asked: "Did you walk with Mr. Poldron the entire way to the field-path where he turned off, or did you leave him at any time, even for a short period?"

There was a moment of absolute stillness. Kinoulton made a quick movement, seemed about to speak, and thought better of it. He smiled grimly. Elizabeth glanced round in something very like terror. In her agitation, she had not understood the significance of the question. Moreton swallowed hard before he put another.

"You are sure that Mr. Poldron took the field-path? Do you know whether or not he might have turned back to the Manor again?"

"I am sure that he walked along it almost halfway to the village." Hardwick alone seemed to be unaware of the importance of the point. Elizabeth's hand had gone to her throat and she seemed about to faint. "You see, I was not decided whether I should go for a walk or not. So I stood watching him until he was almost out of sight... Then it was such a lovely afternoon that I walked through the wood on to the downs, and trespassed a little, I'm afraid, to come in over the kitchen-garden wall—I often do, because it shortens the walk considerably."

"Did you meet or see anyone other than Mr. Poldron after leaving the house, until you reached the lodge?"

"No one," Hardwick said positively. "Everything was just as usual, you know. It seems incredible—"

"Yesterday afternoon. I understood that he was leaving to catch a train to London. He must have changed his mind."

"When you saw Mr. Poldron," Grasmere asked suddenly, "how close was he to the house?"

"Oh, hardly clear of the front steps, I should say." Elizabeth looked quickly at her father; then her eyes fell. Moreton caught the movement, and wondered what it meant. "Of course, I didn't overtake him immediately. I had to open the window, but he was in sight all the time."

"You are free, of course, to withhold an answer to this question, Mr. Hardwick," Moreton said hesitatingly. "But, the tracks of your feet along the path beside where the body was found remain to be explained. Can you suggest any time when you could have made them?"

"Why, I use the path frequently," Hardwick answered with perfect calm, as though it was a question of little importance. "Let me see, I think that I was along there during the morning? Yes, and as a matter of fact I turned off just about the middle—"

"There was a rare bird, or what I took to be a rare bird. It flew into the bushes at that point. I went in after it, but lost it almost immediately."

"One moment. Mr. Kinoulton, can you tell us when you last used the path, before this afternoon?"

"Why, I can't remember exactly," he said after a pause, and Moreton was sure that he did not understand the bearing of the inquiry, and was desperately afraid of saying the wrong thing. "Oh, yes!" he said suddenly. "Of course, I used it the night before, when I called."

"Can you tell us anything that might account for the murder of Mr. Buckfast?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," Hardwick answered promptly. "Only I thought that he seemed a little nervous when the name of Mr. Poldron was mentioned."

"Nothing, I think." Elizabeth spoke in a dead, level tone which seemed to indicate that she was just maintaining her self-control. "When Mr.—the Inspector left to look for my father, I telephoned to the police station about the attack on the maid. I had just finished when my cousin came, and I let him in. He told me that Buckfast had been murdered, and that in all probability he would be suspected. He also revealed to me for the first time that we had been harbouring a spy in the person of our guest—"

"Elizabeth!" Hardwick broke in reprovingly. "I might say, Inspector, that almost from the moment I heard your name and saw you I was aware of your identity. There is, of course, no suggestion that you in any way took advantage of our hospitality—"

Moreton could not speak. Elizabeth had coloured under the rebuke, but was silent. Grasmere, obviously uncomfortable, plunged to the rescue.

"I was in the house all the time—I saw nothing," she answered reluctantly. "Oh, there is one point. When I entered the study with—the Inspector, the ink upon the paper on which my father was writing was not yet dry. He could only have left a few minutes before."

Grasmere nodded. Evidently, Moreton thought, he did not see the significance of the point, in view of the place from which the weapon had been taken. The Chief Constable looked at him and Moreton in turn glanced at the sergeant, and seemed to see a question trembling on his lips.

"It only occurred to me, sir," the sergeant said diffidently, "Mr. Poldron would have been crossing the fields just about the time that the constable was coming from the village. Did Mr. Hardwick see anything of the constable?"

"No, I think not," Hardwick answered. "Of course, I wasn't looking very closely. He might have been there."

"I think, for the moment, that that is all," Grasmere suggested. "We should like to talk to the maid, Mr. Hardwick, and see if we can obtain any description of the two men who called as electricians. At the moment, both they and Mr. Poldron seem to have disappeared completely. I am sorry to have put you to this trouble, Hardwick—"

"One moment." Kinoulton intervened with a parody of Moreton's manner. "Haven't you forgotten a slight formality, Grasmere? Aren't you going to charge me?"

"We are not preferring charges against anyone at the moment," Grasmere said with some restraint. "We should be obliged, Kinoulton, if you could hold yourself at the disposal of the police for a few days, until we see what is happening—"

Moreton did not answer but followed the Chief Constable from the room with a single appealing look at the averted face of Elizabeth.

In the hall, they looked at each other for a moment in silence; then Grasmere indicated the door of the morning-room. He felt the need of getting a little off his chest before they tackled the maidservant.

Inside, he closed the door carefully, and looked at Moreton, as if expecting him to speak. Moreton said nothing, and at last Grasmere asked impatiently:

"One or both of them must be lying—probably both," Moreton answered decisively. "Of course, that point about Poldron walking alone or with Hardwick is the most significant, but there were others. You noticed Kinoulton had to think a bit before he said when he last went down the path. He was wondering what the tracks were like. Of course, the point was that if Hardwick had gone there in the morning, and Kinoulton in the afternoon, Kinoulton's footmarks might have been on top of Hardwick's, but not vice versa. And he didn't realize that most of the path shows no tracks, and wasn't sure which way his tracks ought to be going; so he made it both ways. Another improbability. No one would go that way in the dark."

"Kinoulton very nearly slipped up again," Grasmere replied. When he said the body was still lying on its face. No one could possibly have turned it over and searched it in the time between when he left and you arrived.... On the whole, I think the betting is on Kinoulton. Besides, Poldron and Hardwick would clear each other."

"If we found Poldron," Moreton reminded him. "That's next. If he confirms what Hardwick said—"

"It's a ghastly business, anyhow," Grasmere sighed. "You can't understand how I feel about it, Moreton. I've known all these people for years. Kinoulton's sat on the bench for a long time.... Sometimes this job is the devil!"

If Moreton could not claim the long acquaintance of the Chief Constable, he heartily agreed with the sentiment—so heartily that he changed the subject hastily at the thought of a pair of angry blue eyes which had looked at him as if he ranked well below the common earthworm.

"You won't forget to straighten it out with the Yard?" he asked a little anxiously. "You're sure it will be all right with your people?"

"Of course!" Grasmere assented. "Besides, we generally call in the Yard for murders—" He broke off as there was a knock on the door. It was the constable who entered.

"The Superintendent sent me to tell you, sir, that a man answering to the description of Poldron was seen crossing the fields leading to the downs about a quarter of an hour after the time the murder is supposed to have been committed."

As Grasmere's eye met Moreton's, there was something like despair in it. For if Poldron had indeed been there, he had certainly never crossed the fields to the village.

CHAPTER XIV
An Identification

BOTH men had had a busy two hours when Grasmere sought out Moreton to learn the results of his search of the shrubbery. Moreton's gloomy face, even before he spoke, told him that he had no good news.

"The tracks are absolutely inconclusive," Moreton said in answer to his looks of inquiry. "Judging by those alone, Hardwick and Kinoulton might have been speaking the truth. There may be some way of telling whether a footprint was made this afternoon or this morning, but I don't know it."

"Yes. At some time, Hardwick did exactly as he said—came down the path from the house, went into the bushes, and wandered round a little before he emerged on the lawn. At some time, Kinoulton walked up and down the path several times. Both men tread in each other's tracks—as, by their stories, they could. Hardwick's are the only tracks actually beside the body—and even that shows nothing. There's a place where a man could have stood to search the pockets and left no tracks.... Besides, at some time, two other men, presumably the two who attacked the girl, went down there. All I can say about that, is that certainly it was before Hardwick went down."

"Then the position is, Kinoulton admits seeing the body, but denies the murder or touching it. His tracks do not appear where you would expect them if he had turned out the pockets. He might have got the weapon; he may have had a motive. His story is absolutely unconfirmed. Against it, there is the improbability of his having taken that path last night, and the fact that his story conflicts with Hardwick's. On the whole, he seems the most likely."

"But take Hardwick's story," Moreton answered. "If we find Poldron, and he says the same, it might clear him—"

"Poldron and Hardwick might be acting together. In Hardwick's favour is the fact that he could not possibly have got to the lodge, taken the bar and returned in time to commit the murder. Against him, we have the fact that wherever his story could be confirmed from outside sources it is not. Kinoulton did not see him with Poldron. Poldron did not meet the constable, as one might have expected; instead, we have evidence that he was seen a mile away. The bar might already have been removed and have been lying handy. He may have had a motive; at least his conduct is suspicious."

"Poldron has a motive—from what I heard him say to Bovey. But he couldn't possibly have done it, if Hardwick's story is true. The two other men with him, presumably, have the same motive; but about their movements after leaving the kitchen we know nothing at all."

"The doctor agrees with you that Bovey, when you found him, was only just dead," Grasmere said. "I'm watching Kinoulton and Hardwick—in fact, I've a man sleeping in the Manor for their protection. And I've circulated descriptions of Poldron and the other two. It's hard to see how they can get away."

"My view is that Poldron probably won't try. He'll go straight back to London, and as meekly as you please, offer his assistance to the police, saying he's just heard of the murder. The other two are different. If we found them, the maid's evidence would let us hold them on the minor charge; besides which, the little man probably shows the mark of my pistol bullet. Poldron doesn't know that I can prove he met them; he thinks he's not been seen with them at all. That's the point at which we may get him."

"We'll have to watch Hardwick and Kinoulton, of course, but the great thing is to find out the ultimate motive behind all this—the burglary, the presence of Poldron and Bovey, as well as the murder. The immediate cause seems to have been Hardwick's letter to The Times—"

"I looked that execution up. Remshaw couldn't have had anything to do with this. He was tried for the brutal bludgeoning of an old woman in Yorkshire. My view is that the letter simply gave them Hardwick's address, and from that they found Kinoulton."

"Perhaps." Moreton spoke without conviction. "By the way, there's one man who has something to do with this business who hasn't appeared yet—the heavy-browed young man with a scar that Hardwick asked me about. The mere mention of him was enough to make Bovey really terrified. He's worth looking out for."

"You might find out when the kitchen floor at the Manor was renewed; then, round about that date, or just before most likely, a study of the local paper files might help."

"Both Bovey and Poldron were after something hidden there. Neither got it. Its importance seems to have been to blackmail either Kinoulton or Hardwick or both. The papers might give some idea just what they could be blackmailed about, though I admit it's a long chance. In the meantime, there's one other person whom I'm going to find out about, and that's Shoreham, the gardener's boy. He's evidently in this somehow. The Vicar has been here since last century, and ought to know something. That's where I'm going now."

"Not unless you want me. I've booked a room at the inn—come and have a meal with me there. I don't know what it will be like, but the place is better than you'd think... Say about seven-thirty?"

Moreton was thinking that he needed it as he set out a few minutes later for the Vicarage. The further he went, the more certain he became that even if Elizabeth's father were not the actual murderer, the investigation was likely to disclose something which from her point of view was better kept hidden, and the thought of what it might be was more than a little disturbing.

From the constable he had ascertained that the Vicarage lay a little way back from the road leading to the village, and in his haste he decided rather rashly to go directly across the three or four fields which separated it from the Manor. On that side, a long, narrow plantation of beech-trees marked the boundary of Hardwick's property and he had reached the edge of it just as the light began to fail.

Under the trees it was already almost dark, and he had to pick his way carefully over the lumpy roots and hollows hidden by the brown leaves. He had stopped to make sure of his bearings when suddenly from the wood ahead came the sharp snap of a breaking twig, and faintly but distinctly he heard the rustling of the beech mast as someone moved on a course at right angles to his own.

He waited, listening and trying to obtain even a momentary glimpse of the stranger through the thickly set grey trunks. The unknown seemed to be coming nearer, and it was just as well to find out who it might be. That it was none of the police party he was certain. It might be some harmless villager, either with legitimate business in the wood, or drawn to the scene of the murder by curiosity; for by that time some version of what had happened at the Manor was doubtless common property.

It was half a minute before, between two trees ahead, he had a sight of a shadowy figure, moving lengthways through the plantation towards the lane. It was only for a second that he saw the man in the bad light, and there was no chance at that distance of recognizing who it was, but somehow he must find out. Taking a diagonal course to intercept his quarry, he began to hurry through the wood, going as silently as possible.

At intervals he paused for a moment or two to listen. He had stopped for the third time, and was beginning to think that he must either have overshot his mark, or missed him, when a little way on his left he heard the stranger again. The man was quite close. Dodging behind a tree-trunk, Moreton waited for him to approach.

Like himself, the other seemed to be stopping at intervals to listen. Just in sight, he halted, and in his eagerness, Moreton took a step forward to peer round the tree. The action was fatal. His foot struck a dry branch which cracked like a pistol-shot, and as Moreton cowered behind the tree-trunk the stranger whirled towards him.

For a few seconds he stood still, staring straight at the tree where Moreton was hidden. Moreton told himself that he could not be seen, but the other man continued to stare. Then in a low voice he called out:

Moreton thought furiously. If he did not answer, the man would take the alarm at once; if he did, in all probability he would know that it was not the man he sought who was speaking. He decided to take the plunge.

Almost as soon as he had spoken, he realized that the question had been a mistake. If he had shouted the simple affirmative, the other man might have come forward. As it was, he could see the shadowy figure standing there, as if uncertain. All at once the stranger turned quickly, and Moreton heard his steps crashing through the wood in undisguised flight.

Moreton was after him in a moment, but besides having a considerable start, the stranger was showing a fair turn of speed. Only when he stopped to listen could he tell from the sound of the other's progress that he was still going in the right direction, and by the time they reached the edge of the wood he must have been farther from his objective than when he started. On the soft turf, even the guidance of the sound of footsteps was denied him, but it was lighter. Pausing for a moment to look as he reached the top of the wall, he had the impression of a moving spot to the right, before even that was swallowed up, and jumping down, he set his course again with the intention of heading off the fugitive.

His intentions were excellent; they failed through ignorance of the country. The field in which he found himself was surrounded by a hedge which defied even his most desperate efforts to penetrate it, and his face and hands were badly scratched before he finally won through and started towards where he had last seen his quarry. Even as he ran, he knew that the chase was now hopeless. Only good luck could give him another sight of the man ahead.

But luck failed him. He had reached another hedge, no less obstinate than the one he had just negotiated, and was seeking for a way through when the futility of further pursuit dawned upon him. He had wasted two or three minutes at the last hedge, and even then the man had had thirty or forty yards start. Evidently he had known the ground; the hedges had not delayed him, and by now he might be anything up to a mile away in an unknown direction.

Reluctantly, Moreton decided to give it up. The lights of a house which he guessed must be the Vicarage gleamed through some trees about half a mile away, and keeping his eyes and ears open, in the last desperate hope that for some reason the man might have returned or made a detour, he started towards them, wondering what the significance of this stealthy visit might be, or even if it had any significance. Even though the man had run, it was still possible that he was nothing more exciting than a poacher or someone drawn to the Manor by hearing of the tragedy. If not, who was it? He was sure only that it was not Poldron. It might have been Strelley, or the little man, or even the mysterious man with the scar; or it might have been some new actor in the drama whose identity he could not conjecture. Even more, he wondered what the object of the visit might be. He was still wondering when, gaining the drive, he walked a few yards along it and knocked at the lighted doorway of the Vicarage.

The Vicar rose to greet him as he entered the room, and his manner showed that the visit was not entirely a welcome one. Plainly the old man was divided between a desire to help the law and a wish to have as little as possible to do with a business which was distasteful to him.

"I need hardly ask why you have come, Inspector," he said. "Though I am afraid that there is very little I can do to help you—"

"Yes. Even in these wilds, Mr. Moreton, we have our equivalent of a bush telegraph. In this case, I believe, it was the man who came with the milk." He permitted himself to smile slightly; then his face became grave again. "But it is a terrible business, Inspector. Poor Hardwick will be most upset. I must get round to see him."

"Would it be too much to ask exactly what you have heard?" Moreton asked. "It is of interest to us, of course, to know exactly what stories are going round."

"Of course." The Vicar motioned him to a chair. "I have it, I imagine, only at about fourth hand. As one who has lived here nearly half a century, I can guess what inaccuracies might have crept in... Briefly, I have heard that the Manor was burgled; that the maidservant was attacked and almost killed; that though nothing was stolen, the thieves would appear to have quarrelled, and that the dead body of one of them was found in the shrubbery. The other is still missing."

"That is a possible theory," he admitted. In his heart he was blessing Mary, or whoever else was the author of the story, for so conveniently missing out all the awkward essentials. He could not have done much better himself. "Yes, it was about that which I came... A minor inquiry which we thought should be made."

"But you are on the spot very soon?" the Vicar suggested. Like most men, his curiosity about the activities of Scotland Yard was considerable. "You must have heard immediately?"

"I was taking a holiday down here. The Chief Constable, who used to know my father, called me in."

"That explains it. Even in these days of rapid transport, Inspector, your appearance verged upon the miraculous. But you wanted to ask me something, and I am wasting your time. No doubt you are busy."

"Yes," Moreton hesitated, wondering just how to put his questions so that they would cause a minimum of excitement. "You will understand that this is a private inquiry, of a kind which we have often to make. It may have no connection with the crime; on the other hand it may. We had wondered whether a former employee of Mr. Hardwick's, named Shoreham, who left some years ago, I believe rather under a cloud, could have had anything to do with it—not necessarily as one of the burglars, you understand—"

"Shoreham?" The Vicar echoed the name in some surprise. "I should certainly not have thought so. Shoreham—Jim Shoreham, the son, you mean? Why, it must be ten years since he left. Yes, ten years in June. I had often wondered what had happened to him, but thought he had gone abroad."

"No. I have heard nothing since he left, but he did not return for the funeral of his father and mother who were burnt to death two years later. It was in every paper in the country, I believe. Perhaps he is dead, even."

"We had, in fact, heard that he died abroad," Moreton admitted. "Then you have no idea where he went?"

"I am afraid not, but you are surely wrong in saying that he left here under a cloud? So far as I remember, he was offered more profitable employment in one of the seaside resorts—Brighton, I think. That, I am afraid, Mr. Moreton, is a common enough happening in a countryside such as ours. But Mr. Hardwick or Mr. Kinoulton would be able to tell you more, Mr. Kinoulton especially. I believe that it was through his agency that Shoreham found the post."

"You don't remember what it was, or who employed him?" Moreton asked. That Kinoulton should have been responsible for getting Shoreham out of the village was interesting, but he wished to seem as though he paid little attention to it. "It was ten years ago, you say?"

"Yes, I am sure of that. About where he went I am afraid that you will have to ask Mr. Kinoulton. He might remember."

"Very little. He was rather a surly-looking boy—an irregular attendant at Sunday School, and an even less frequent church-goer. It is as a cricketer I knew him chiefly. We used to have a fair side here, Mr. Moreton—a very fair side for the size of the village. Shoreham, if hardly one of our stalwarts, had a happy knack of sometimes pulling round a desperate situation. He was, in reality, a poor batsman; yet, I remember, there was a match in—let me see—not long before he left—the date escapes me—but that in any case would scarcely interest you, Inspector—in a last wicket stand, he and I just saved the match against Mr. Simpson's Eleven..."

Moreton tried to look interested, but in his heart he was a little depressed at the fact that neither Elizabeth nor the Vicar seemed to be able to recall anything more sinister about the gardener's boy than his cricketing activities.

"I imagine that it was in the Eleven that Mr. Kinoulton came to know him?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe it was—in fact, I believe there was some talk of Mr. Kinoulton taking him on as gardener when his grandfather's money came to him.... But he was hardly old enough for so responsible a post, and his interests, indeed, lay elsewhere."

"It scarcely sounds as though he had any connection with this affair," Moreton commented. "But of course, we have to make sure.... Perhaps you could describe him as you remember him."

"I can do better." The Vicar rose to his feet and drew from the shelf a large album. "I can show you a photograph... Descriptions, I think, Mr. Moreton, are so unsatisfactory. One says a man has brown hair and blue eyes, a rather projecting jaw—he had, in fact—but it conveys so little. These are the snapshots taken of our Eleven at the height of its glory—though now, I fear, it is extinct. Let me see.... This one? No.... It would be a year or two earlier, I think. Ah, here! That is he, Mr. Moreton, next to me in the centre."

Moreton took the snapshot. It was postcard size, and by a miracle the faces of those in it were readily distinguishable.

His eyes travelled along the two lines of white-clad figures; then he started and almost dropped it. Dipping into the album, the Vicar had missed seeing the excitement which his guest had betrayed.

"Might I—might I borrow this for a day?" Moreton asked. "Of course, I shall return it to you."

"By all means, Inspector." The Vicar assented with slightly raised eyebrows. "I am glad to have been of service to you, though I hope that Shoreham will not prove to be connected with this affair. I am afraid there is nothing else I can tell you that might be helpful."

"You have helped me enormously," Moreton answered with real sincerity. "I am very grateful... very grateful indeed."

As he walked down the drive, for the first time since Bovey's death he felt almost cheerful. The photograph in his hand was a key to many puzzles. It explained Bovey's horror at the thought of the man with the scar following him that night; it explained in part Hardwick's inquiry, and the complete absence of the man about whom he had asked. For, even from the small photograph, the heavy brows and irregular mark on the young man's cheek stood out distinctly. Shoreham was the man with the scar, and what was more, he was someone else. Moreton thought with a grim smile that Bovey had spoken the truth when he said that the gardener's boy had died of a broken neck. For authorities agree that in a well-conducted hanging, death occurs not from strangulation but by dislocation of the vertebrae; and there had been no mistake when, under the name of James Remshaw, Shoreham had paid the penalty of his crime three days before.

CHAPTER XV
An Attack and a Rescue

It was not only the fact that, almost to a certainty either Hardwick or Kinoulton were involved in the murder, and that both had been his friends for some considerable time. In the drawing-room he had noticed Elizabeth's attitude towards Moreton, and, having known Moreton himself since he was in long clothes, and his father before him, he was unhappy about what he considered an injustice done to a man who had faithfully carried out his duty. Finding himself alone with Elizabeth, he took what seemed to him a golden opportunity of speaking a word in season.

"I don't think you were quite fair to young Moreton," he said abruptly. "After all—you owe him a good deal—"

Elizabeth stared at him in genuine amazement. She was in the state of mind when it seemed sufficiently incredible that anyone should even attempt to excuse Moreton, much less suggest that he had done anything worthy of gratitude. She laughed, with a trace of hysteria.

"Owe him a good deal?" she echoed. "Oh, yes! I shan't forget it, believe me, I owe him a lot! Colonel Grasmere!"

"Yes, you do!" Grasmere persisted doggedly. He could not quite understand Elizabeth's tone, but he felt that she was looking at the matter unreasonably.

"Look here, Elizabeth, I'm taking the liberty of speaking like an uncle, because I'm an old friend of your father, and of Moreton too.... You seem to think that he's done something underhand in accepting your hospitality without announcing that he was a detective. I don't see it. In any decent house, it would not be necessary to give a warning like that. And besides, he's well known. He gave his name, and your father at any rate recognized it. You're angry with him, but as a matter of fact he's been taking risks for you all the time."

"Yes, I suppose you don't think it's necessary for a man in Moreton's position to report a little incident like that burglary last night? On that alone, he's put himself in a curious position with head-quarters... And the results have hardly justified it—because it looks as though this murder was one of them and might have been prevented. Then again, in this. He's badgered me into letting him take charge, though I'm far from sure if he ought to or not. I suppose you don't know that it's on his responsibility that we've not arrested either your father, or Kinoulton, or both? And it's a risk, though they've both been friends of mine, that I'm not sure I'd have taken.... In the drawing-room just now, he was more of a man than I was, because he hated what he had to do, but he did it all the same. He's very fond of you, Elizabeth—"

"Oh!" Elizabeth's sharp exclamation broke in upon him, and he did not know that it was half due to the fact that he had been saying things which had already occurred to Elizabeth herself. But if she was at heart a little inclined to reproach herself with her treatment of Moreton, she was by no means inclined to admit it. She turned to Grasmere with a sudden decision. "Anything you wish to say in your official capacity, Colonel Grasmere, I am, of course, obliged to listen to with respect," she said coldly. "I prefer to manage my own private affairs.... Did you wish to say anything further?"

All his life Grasmere had had an exaggerated respect and reverence for women, due, perhaps to his fifty years as a bachelor. It might have been a thwarted paternal instinct which made him wish that he could have put Elizabeth across his knee and smacked her.

"No," he said briefly. "If there is anything further, I will see you to-morrow—or your father."

It was only as he went down the drive that he realized his last words might be construed as a threat. But Elizabeth was past worrying about threats. She was furiously angry with Moreton, with Colonel Grasmere, with her father, and with herself—perhaps most of all with herself, and it would have puzzled her to say whether this was because she could not banish the thought of Moreton from her mind, or because she knew that she had treated him unjustly. Her father had retired to the study, and Mary had long since left to fill the village with wild tales which made Malford seem a second Chicago. She deliberately sought out the detective who had been deputed to sleep there, but the respectful middle-aged man whom she found added no fuel to the flames of her wrath, and, as a married man of some experience, recognized the mood in which he found her, well enough to agree with her cautiously in everything. Elizabeth, who had gone to him prepared to be rude, found herself inquiring about his comfort and arrangements for the night. She left him at last in desperation, and with a sudden resolution, broke the custom of years and burst in upon her father while he was working in his study. Hardwick looked up mildly with a slight astonishment. She noticed with some irritation that he seemed to have been serenely settled at his desk as though nothing had happened, and was in fact writing furiously as she entered.

"Elizabeth, is anything the matter?" Hardwick asked innocently. "Surely nothing has happened?"

"Nothing happened!" Elizabeth had often failed to understand her father's attitude of mind; now it seemed simply incredible. "But, Daddy—don't you understand? You may be charged with murder!"

"Charged? Surely not?" Hardwick remonstrated mildly. "If there was any suggestion of that, Elizabeth, I am sure that Grasmere would have mentioned it... As I said just now, it was quite impossible for me to have had anything to do with this affair, even if the idea were not ridiculous. I was with Mr. Poldron—"

"But, Daddy, you see—" Elizabeth broke off, puzzled by her father's manner, and almost in desperation at his apparent innocence. "But, Daddy, Mr. Poldron—he's not a trustworthy witness. And, I suppose you didn't know, but your story—it conflicted with John's—"

"With John's story?" Hardwick asked. "Now, I should never have thought of that... No doubt it can be explained. By the way, Elizabeth, Colonel Grasmere told me that you had accepted John's proposal. I am sure that you are old enough to decide for yourself, and judging by my own knowledge of him, Kinoulton will make an excellent husband. I hope that you will be very happy with him—"

"Daddy! Don't talk of it!" Elizabeth begged. Hardwick raised his eyebrows slightly. "Daddy, you've got to tell me all about it. You must know that they suspect you—that we've got a detective actually staying with us in the house to keep a watch on what we do—"

"Really, Elizabeth, you exaggerate!" Hardwick interrupted with a shade of irritation. "Of course, after what has happened here, Grasmere thought that it would be safer if we had someone to sleep in the house. And obviously he was right. I do not like to think what might have happened last night, if Mr. Moreton had not been here. A very courageous young man, to tackle three armed burglars single-handed. Yes, and intelligent, I think—yes, decidedly intelligent. We had quite a long talk after you went to bed last night, Elizabeth—"

"An estimable young man!" Hardwick repeated firmly. He adjusted his glasses and looked at her with a severity which seemed almost comical. "Of course, Elizabeth, I did not recognize him at first. It was only while we were talking that the idea came to me that I knew the name.... He has figured in some notable cases, and has some surprising triumphs to his name. If you read the newspapers, Elizabeth you would realize just how much we owe to these officers. With the methods of inflicting punishment I may disagree, but with the personnel of those who have to carry out our present obsolete legislation—"

"Daddy," Elizabeth spoke with a deadly calm. "You know something about what has happened here. Why have these men come down from London? Why was our house broken into last night? Why was Mr.—Mr. Buckfast murdered? What were they looking for here? You must know something—"

"About the murder, I can assure you that I know nothing," Hardwick answered carefully. "It would seem that the unfortunate man Bovey, or Buckfast as he described himself to us, must have been followed by some private enemy to this place. It may or may not have been the same men who entered the house last night. One can only suppose that they hoped to find something worth stealing. As for the reasons for Mr. Poldron's visit, I think that he has already informed us—"

"He was lying!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "You know he was lying. I could see it, and Mr.—Moreton thought so too. And why did Mr.—my cousin—seem to know about Buckfast—"

"Your cousin, I am convinced, had as little to do with the murder as I had myself," her father assured her firmly. "And the same applies to Mr. Poldron... As to what was the motive, it is an excellent principle, Elizabeth, to which I have always strictly adhered, that, merely out of fairness to the police, the work which they have to do should be left entirely in their hands.... And now, Elizabeth, if you will excuse me, I am busy. My work has already been sufficiently interrupted by what has happened. You really must not worry about these things. I am sure that Colonel Grasmere and Inspector Moreton have not the least intention of doing anything so foolish as charging me or John with the murder of a man who, I understand, had anything but an enviable reputation. No doubt the unfortunate man met his death at the hands of his criminal associates—"

"But—but he was staying with John!" Elizabeth burst out desperately. "Why should he have been there? What was he doing here at all?"

"I see no reason why we should doubt what he told us," Hardwick answered gravely. "He came here to see the place which poor young Shoreham had so often described to him. As to why he was staying with John, I think that John would be the best person to answer that. I have no doubt that he would tell you... You know, Elizabeth, I was very glad to hear about Shoreham. It only shows what may be done by a little forbearance in the early stages of a person's life. That is what I am writing about at the present moment." He indicated the pile of manuscript on the table before him. "I'm afraid, Elizabeth, that like most people, you scarcely pay sufficient attention to the subject of juvenile crime. Believe me, under our present laws, half the time we are making criminals, or causing those who already exist to become worse criminals. Now, take the unfortunate man who committed this murder—"

"Of all criminals, murderers are, I believe, the most unfortunate," Hardwick answered firmly. "The popular idea of the atrocity of their crime blinds men to the fact that the great bulk of murderers would, in all probability, only commit one murder in their lives, and, apart from that, might develop into useful members of the community. Suppose they catch this man—and I sincerely hope that they will not—"

"You hope that they won't catch him?" Elizabeth was used to her father's theories, and had, in fact, become so accustomed to them that it was only the practical application to a case which she knew that prevented her from acquiescing meekly. "But, Daddy, you can't think that!"

"I have excellent reasons for hoping that the man will not be caught—but this is hardly the time to explain them. I am really very busy, Elizabeth. When I have finished this, I shall be glad to explain. Perhaps at supper-time, or afterwards?"

If Elizabeth had been bewildered before her meeting with her father, her feelings when she closed the study door behind her were absolutely chaotic. Somehow she must find an answer to the riddles of the past few days, and her father, if he knew anything, was clearly determined not to reveal it. Her thoughts flew to Kinoulton. He must know the solution to the problem, and in utter desperation she decided that she must ask him. As the stolid figure of the sergeant crossed the hall, she made up her mind suddenly. She went over to him.

"To-night, miss?" The sergeant was rather at a loss what he should do. His instructions included keeping an eye on the house as well as its occupants, and it had apparently not occurred to Grasmere that the two might not be the same. "Do you think you'd better, miss?" he asked doubtfully. "The Colonel said—"

"Did the Colonel tell you that we were to be kept prisoners here?" Elizabeth demanded with unnecessary heat. "Have you orders to watch us?"

"Oh, no, miss!" The sergeant tried to sound shocked at the suggestion, in spite of an uncomfortable knowledge that, so far as Hardwick was concerned, it was very near the truth. "But Inspector Moreton thinks—"

The sergeant had not been present in the drawing-room, and he had thought the name of the Scotland Yard detective a good card to play. Elizabeth disillusioned him.

"Inspector Moreton!" she blazed out. "He thinks, I suppose, that we're murderers?"

"He thinks, miss, that the men who burgled the house might attack either you or your father," Sergeant Collins explained with some patience. "He thinks that, not getting what they came to look for, they'll think you or your father must have it. He's afraid something might happen to you—"

"That's very kind of the Inspector," Elizabeth broke in with a tone which belied her words, "but I am sure that it is quite unnecessary. Am I to understand that in your official capacity you forbid me to leave the house?"

It was just what the sergeant would have liked to do, but he had received no instructions to that effect, and Elizabeth was beginning to irritate him.

"No," he answered briefly. "Go if you like, miss. I've warned you. But be careful."

Elizabeth was in no mood to obey his last instruction as she hurried down the drive. She was angry, and the annoying thing was that the thought of Moreton's officiousness failed to exasperate her as much as she could have wished. She even found herself wondering whether there might not be something in the view of Colonel Grasmere that the young Inspector had tried to save them trouble. The walk in the cool night air soothed her, and as she recalled Moreton's handsome, boyish face, she found herself wishing that he was the criminal she had at first thought him, and she wondered at herself for announcing her engagement to her cousin and being so particularly unpleasant to a man she liked far better.

By the time she reached the lodge-gates, the confidence born of bad temper had evaporated completely. It seemed all at once to be very dark and lonely, and if it had not been for the thought of the sergeant, she would willingly have turned back. Though she told herself that she was being fanciful, and that all the more since the murder had been committed and the police were on the alert, their assailants of the previous night would have left the neighbourhood, her arguments failed to convince her. With added uneasiness she remembered the sergeant's statement that Moreton had been afraid of an attack upon her father or herself, and if she had admitted it she would have been badly frightened. As it was she almost ran the last part of the lane leading to the drive.

Her hand was stretched out to find the gate-latch when suddenly from the darkness on the opposite side of the road the blinding beam of a torch shone full upon her. With a gasp she whirled to face it. Behind the glare she could see nothing, but she heard a man laugh. All at once the light was extinguished, and the pitch blackness which followed seemed to stifle her. Her heart beat wildly as she waited. Then on the hard surface of the lane she heard the sound of stealthy footsteps coming towards her.

It was too much for her shaken nerves. She cried out in terror, and turned to flee, but the light of the torch had come from the direction of the village. She could not go back the way she had come, and along the lane towards the downs there was not even a house for miles. The drive seemed her one hope. She groped blindly for the latch, no longer intent upon getting to her destination, but only anxious to escape. All at once her hand touched it. As it clicked sharply and the gate yielded to her pressure, right beside her she was conscious of something moving. She recoiled with a cry. Then someone gripped her arm roughly.

"Quiet!" came the threatening command, and even in her terror Elizabeth had a dim impression that she knew the voice. "Quiet, unless you want me to hurt you... You and me are going to have a little talk. If there's any trouble, it will be just too bad—for you!"

Elizabeth stood still. In spite of herself, she was trembling violently. She had remembered where she had heard the man's voice before. It was her assailant in the hall last night. She recollected vaguely that Moreton had said that Strelley, if it was he, was a dangerous man, but even more convincing was a memory of the savage face she had seen when she switched on the light.

"Just wondered who the skirt was going to Kinoulton's at this time of night," the captor continued. "Thought I'd have a look—and the pleasure wasn't quite unexpected. Still, it's a bit of luck. We'd have been looking for you later."

"What—what do you mean?" Elizabeth found her voice, but there was a tremor in her indignant question. "Let me go! I—"

"Stow it!" Strelley interrupted impatiently. "Guess you think I'm soft because I didn't conk you sooner last night? Well, try to scream, and you'll see... And, anyway it'll hurt you more than me if the police butt in."

"I—I don't understand!" Elizabeth faltered. "What do you mean? What do you want—"

"I want that box—and you're going to give it me." Strelley gripped her arm more tightly, as if to emphasize the point, and she could have screamed with the pain alone. "Where is it? What have you done with it?"

For a moment Elizabeth was genuinely mystified. Then she remembered the square mark which Moreton had pointed out in the hollow beneath the flagstones. It must be that to which her captor was referring. She tried to keep a hold upon herself, but felt a growing panic.

"I—I don't know!" she burst out. "I haven't got it! If you don't let me go—"

"You'll cry for help, and have some flat-footed country cop asking questions, I guess? No, I don't think so. If you do, let me tell you, it's the gallows for someone you're pretty fond of. We may not have the box, but we've evidence enough. If we're caught, you're for it too. Now, I want that box. Where is it?"

"I—I know nothing about it!" Elizabeth protested. "When Inspector Moreton and I raised the flagstone—"

"Moreton? He's not here? You're lying. He couldn't have got here in the time—"

"He was here last night!" Elizabeth took courage at his obvious dismay. "He nearly got you. If you don't let me go—"

"You'll tell Moreton? Oh, no! I don't think so!" Strelley laughed. "Well, you lifted the stone. What about it?"

He broke off suddenly. Elizabeth felt his arm stiffen as if at some sudden alarm. With a burst of hope she caught the rapid beat of running footsteps coming towards them up the lane.

"Not a sound!" Strelley breathed threateningly. "If you call out, you'll see what you get."

The newcomer was quite close. She found herself pushed backwards into the hedge. Strelley's whisper came again imperatively.

In the very instant that she was about to disobey the command a hand closed over her mouth, crushing it savagely. The man's grip was like iron. She could not break it, but she kicked out desperately, and a sharp heel found Strelley's shin-bone. He gave a grunt of pain, and the newcomer heard it.

With a wave of relief Elizabeth recognized Moreton's voice. Strelley evidently knew it too. His grip relaxed, then tightened. With a curse he flung her from him towards the oncoming man, and she staggered and fell right in front of him. Half dazed, she realized that Moreton was bending over her, and sat up weakly to face him as from the lane behind the footsteps of her late captor grew steadily fainter.

CHAPTER XVI
Elizabeth Apologizes

FOR a moment she could not speak. A strong arm grasped her, raising her to her feet. She swayed dizzily and almost fell, clinging to its support in utter ignorance of anything except that the touch of the arm brought her comfort.

"No," Elizabeth answered tremulously. "He—" he threw me down when you came—"

Moreton had listened almost in agony to the diminishing sound of her assailant's footsteps. The sharp question brought back to Elizabeth the memory of his official position. She drew away hurriedly from the arm which supported her, and Moreton let her go. The thought flashed across her mind of what Strelley had said. She dare not take the risk of putting the police upon his track. If he were caught it might mean that her father would be hanged. She did not answer.

"It—it was a man!" Elizabeth faltered. "He gripped my arm, just as I was turning into the drive to go to my cousin's—"

"Yes," Moreton prompted, and his voice had suddenly grown harder. "Who was it? What did he want?"

Elizabeth was silent. The hardness in Moreton's voice increased her fear, and she was afraid to say anything which might suggest to him who her assailant had really been. To Moreton, her mere refusal to speak aggravated his anxiety about what she might have to conceal. He repeated his question.

"I—I don't know." Elizabeth tried to make the lie sound convincing, but even in the darkness which hid Moreton's face from her, she knew that she had failed. "How could I tell? He flashed a torch on me, gripped me by the arm and threatened me. I never saw him—"

"Yes," Elizabeth admitted. "I didn't know the voice...." She could sense Moreton's disbelief, and the knowledge that he was aware of her lying made her illogically angry with him. "Why should I know him?" she burst out. "I expect he was a thief—a pickpocket or something—"

"I see." Moreton's voice was expressionless. "What exactly did he say to you, Miss Hardwick?"

"He—he told me to keep quiet, or I should be hurt. He said he wanted to talk to me—" Elizabeth broke off. "Then he heard you coming," she continued after a pause. "He put his hand over my mouth, but I struggled. When you called out, he threw me down and ran away."

"Said he wanted to talk to you?" Moreton repeated slowly. "Doesn't sound like an ordinary hold-up, does it? You're sure that there was nothing else he wanted?"

Moreton said nothing in reply. He was regretting that he had not followed his impulse to pursue the fleeing man, instead of stopping. But he had thought that Elizabeth might have been hurt; in fact, the deadly fear had been in his mind that he might have stumbled across a second murder. He knew that Elizabeth was lying; that she had recognized the man and knew what he wanted, but in her present mood she was certainly not going to tell him.

"You were going to Mr. Kinoulton's, I suppose?" he said after a short silence. "Perhaps you will allow me to escort you the rest of the way?"

"I'll take you home," Moreton interrupted, and in the confusion of his feelings perhaps the one which predominated was self-reproach for not having understood sufficiently the strain under which she must have been labouring. It was against Kinoulton that he felt an entirely unreasonable anger, though he assured himself that that unfortunate man was in no way to blame. The idea that after all Elizabeth was not going to her cousin's was distinctly comforting, and he spoke more gently, even apologetically. "I mean, that is, if you want to go. Of course, if you'd rather I didn't—"

"I should like you to come," Elizabeth said in a low voice. She shivered a little. The countryside which she had known since she was a child seemed suddenly to be full of hidden dangers, and she moved closer to Moreton, who seemed a strangely comforting figure in an unreal world of enemies. "Yes, I will go home."

For some minutes they walked in silence. They were nearing the lodge-gates when Elizabeth, out of the confusion of her mind, at last found something which she wanted to say.

"Well, I could hardly have done anything else, could I?" Moreton rejoined unencouragingly. His own thoughts had been dwelling on the scene in the drawing-room and her announcement of her engagement to Kinoulton, and a little devil of jealousy in his mind made him speak harshly, only to regret it the next second. "I don't expect he would have hurt you. Of course, I'm glad to have been of any assistance."

The stiffness of his reply to her overture ought to have annoyed Elizabeth. Instead, some intuition about the reason for it made her smile to herself in the darkness.

"I returned to the Manor after going to the Vicarage to make an inquiry," Moreton answered almost in the manner of one giving an official report. "I ascertained from the sergeant that you had gone out, and thought that perhaps you would have gone to visit Mr.—your fiancé. I followed in case there was anyone about."

"But I have something else to thank you for," she said at last. "Colonel Grasmere told me that it was owing to you that my father or John was not arrested. After you had gone, he talked to me like a father—"

"Grasmere's an old fool!" It was Moreton who coloured this time at the thought of what the Colonel might have said out of sheer kindness of heart. "No, I don't mean that." He corrected himself. "I'm tremendously fond of him—I've known him since he used to give me surreptitious half-crowns which I spent on sweets and marbles.... But, I mean to say, he doesn't quite understand the position. I don't think he's had many murder cases since he took on this job—in fact I'm sure he hasn't. Perhaps in his innocence he would have made an arrest, but it wouldn't have been sense. We can't provide a case against anyone at the moment which isn't as full of holes as—as—well, hopeless. It's no joke making a wrongful arrest for murder."

Moreton was tempted to deny it. He despaired of explaining how he felt, and in the end spoke more brutally than he need have done.

There was silence again, but Elizabeth guessed something of the struggle which it must have cost him to say the words. They had turned up the drive and were half-way to the house when he spoke again.

"In any case, I don't think we need worry about that," he said thoughtfully, and the very remoteness of the point of view his words suggested gave Elizabeth hope. It was as though he was considering the whole matter quite apart from any personal consideration. I'm pretty sure that your father didn't do the murder, and I very much doubt if Kinoulton did... There are almost as many difficulties one way as the other, but though I'd never dogmatize about a murderer, I don't feel that either of them is the right kind.... The difficulty will be to find out who did, and why. And if your father and Kinoulton aren't guilty of killing Bovey, there's certainly something they want to hide. That's the trouble. Whatever is really behind this murder is something that makes everyone who knows anything about it behave mysteriously. I've got to find it—in fact, I've gone a step that way to-night. If you'd known who it was who attacked you—"

He broke off, and the unfinished sentence was an invitation, but suddenly Elizabeth was on the defensive. It had occurred to her that, after all, Moreton might be playing a part, and that his changed manner might be no more than a device to extract from her the information which she had refused to give. Though she hated herself for the thought, she did not accept the opening. Moreton halted at the foot of the steps.

"I shouldn't go out alone at night," he advised. "If you want to go anywhere, the sergeant would see you on your way—or your father... I'm not anxious to have you followed by the police, or anything like that," he added hurriedly. "But you can see from to-night, there are risks. And I mightn't be along next time. Good night."

"Good night!" Elizabeth had an impulse to burst out with all she wanted to say; then it passed. "And—and thank you again."

It was not any professional feeling which made Moreton feel more cheerful as he made his way towards the inn where he hoped to find Grasmere; in fact, from that point of view, he had added reason for gloom. He was convinced that, for the second time that evening, one of the people who knew something about the murder had escaped him by a few yards, and the fact that he had alarmed his quarry without gaining any advantage was to the bad rather than otherwise. But if he had not advanced a great deal towards the solution of the problem, he had, or thought he had, the explanation of why she had announced her engagement to Kinoulton, and he greeted cheerfully the rather gloomy Grasmere who was waiting for him.

"In a way. I found out something about the gardener's boy, though I don't quite see the bearing of it yet. Shoreham was Remshaw, the man who was hanged, and he was the man with the heavy eyebrows and the scar. Look!"

"It helps this way," Moreton explained. "Before, the real mystery was the connection between two respectable country gentlemen and a gang of London thugs. It looks as though Shoreham gives the clue. Suppose he started his career of crime earlier than we know; suppose Hardwick and Kinoulton were mixed up in what he did; suppose Bovey and Poldron were blackmailing them for it. Doesn't that give a possible explanation of what has happened... There was something else. It looks to me as if some of the gang were still hanging about. I've twice missed them by a few feet to-night. If so, there's some good reason for it. And as I see it, either there's a huge fortune, or there's the risk of hanging, anyway."

"If that's so, I don't see where they are," Grasmere objected. "I've had reports from most of the places round. Look here, Moreton, I don't see how they could be stopping anywhere near—"

"You can't possibly tell they're not on any investigation we've made so far," Moreton countered. "There's all that expanse of downs behind. It would take weeks to search that properly."

"The first time the man slipped me, owing to the fact that I didn't know the country. The second—" He broke off and continued after a slight pause. "Well, something delayed me."

Grasmere did not seem to see any special significance in the words. He did not speak for a minute or two, but filling his pipe puffed in silence.

"It's Poldron I want to see," he said at last. "From what you say about his threats to Bovey, Poldron's the likeliest to have committed the murder, but if he didn't, we want his confirmation of Hardwick's story pretty badly. We've got to find him."

"Doubt if there'll be any trouble in doing that," Moreton answered a little grimly, thinking of his own previous encounters with that elusive personage. He had tried hard to get Poldron for seven years. All he had achieved was a reprimand, and he felt a greater respect for him than for any criminal he had encountered. "I'm pretty sure you'll find that Poldron's got a nice way out for himself.... Strelley and the other man constitute the weak point in his armour. If we could find them— By the way, did you have any luck?"

"Nothing," Grasmere answered gloomily. "Oh, I found out about the kitchen floor. It was done ten years ago."

"Anyhow, that fits in perfectly," Moreton encouraged. "Shoreham was still there, and he left soon afterwards.... In all probability he was the man who made the hole; but we might know definitely."

"The finger-prints in the cement," Moreton explained. "I sent them up to Town. It's a faint enough hope, but it might work."

"If we could find Poldron," Grasmere persisted, and it was not difficult to guess that his great interest was in the clearing of Hardwick, "we should at any rate be able to wipe out one suspect—or two rather—"

"Don't forget Poldron and Hardwick may be working together. I admit it sounds unlikely, but you don't know. Incidentally, there's another small point which suggests that Hardwick's story may be false—"

He broke off as a knock sounded on the door. It was a servant who opened, and, half-curious, half-nervous, advanced into the room to proffer Moreton a card. The Inspector's eyebrows rose a little as he glanced at it; and his lips pursed as if he was about to whistle; then he laughed.

"Your wish is granted. It's Poldron!" Moreton laughed again. "And now it remains to be seen if he's half such a welcome guest as we thought. Will you deal with him, or shall I?"

"Poldron!" Grasmere exclaimed. "But— Of course, I'd rather that you questioned him."

"Right!" Moreton assented. "But I'll bet that it's not by questioning that we're going to learn much—"

An idea seemed to strike him suddenly. He moved across the room to the window, pushed back the catch and tried it, to find that it slid easily. Closing it, he turned to meet Grasmere's eye. "I'm going to follow him," he exclaimed. "And I'm going to do it myself... I've had experience of putting other people on it, and having 'em found out—"

He had just resumed his seat by the fire when the door opened again. Poldron was smiling as he entered, and one might have thought that it was the self-satisfied smile of a man who, at some little inconvenience to himself, was doing his duty. Without hesitation he advanced towards Moreton, who rose to meet him. Then one of his quick glances rested on Grasmere. He looked at Moreton inquiringly.

"May I introduce you?" Moreton asked sweetly. "This is Colonel Grasmere, the Chief Constable, who has called me in.... You wanted to see me, Mr. Poldron?"

"More exactly, I thought that perhaps you would want to see me," Poldron rejoined. "I heard about this affair, at Guildford, while I was on my way back to Town. It occurred to me that you would probably be interested in any strangers who had recently left the village. As I was actually at the Manor about the time of the murder, I came back to place myself at your disposal."

"Only since I returned to the village." Poldron smiled. "It was gratifying to know that the officer in charge was a man with whom I had already some acquaintance."

"Of course, Mr. Poldron, we had heard that you were staying here, and even that you visited the Manor," Moreton said carefully. "But I might say that we were never in doubt that you would place yourself at the disposal of the police at the earliest possible moment... There is one point which interests me. How did you come to hear of the crime?"

"By chance only. I had stopped for petrol; I heard two men talking, and catching the name of the village, asked what had happened. I came back immediately."

"I see." In fact, Moreton saw a good deal. Poldron had come back because he was perfectly prepared with a story to account for all his actions since his arrival at the village. "Perhaps you would tell us just what happened?" he suggested mildly.

"I came down to Malford with a view to renting or purchasing the Manor. Perhaps it will seem strange to you, but losing my way a few weeks ago, I had seen it, and it fascinated me. From what I heard in the village, I thought it quite possible that Mr. Hardwick would consent to some such arrangement. When Mr. Hardwick spoke to me yesterday, the matter seemed as good as settled, but Miss Hardwick took a different view. I called again this afternoon, in the hope that she might have altered her decision. After I left her, Mr. Hardwick joined me in the drive; we walked together to the lodge-gates, and he was good enough to tell me that he would discuss the matter again with his daughter and let me know. At the gates he turned along the lane towards the downs; I took the path across the fields to the village, and eventually picked up my car at the point where I had arranged that it should meet me."

"Why, he joined me almost outside the front door," he said. "He said that he'd seen me from the window, and had hurried out to overtake me."

"If the fact that he tried to swindle me constitutes an acquaintance, I did. That was in London, about eighteen months ago. I had heard nothing about him until I came here."

"I suppose that you would be surprised if I said that we had a credible witness who asserted that you had recently threatened him?"

"I certainly threatened him, only yesterday, Inspector—but only with the law!" Poldron retorted. "I found him down here calling on the Hardwicks, and, knowing his record, I took it upon myself to give him a warning. If that is a threat, no doubt I threatened him."

"I see," Moreton said again. In dealing with Poldron, he had laid it down as a golden rule always to think how a given fact would appear in court after cross-examination by a clever barrister. Viewed from this standpoint, it did not seem half so convincing that Poldron had encountered Bovey in the shrubbery. It was Grasmere who stepped into the breach with a question.

"I am quite willing to stay for several days, if you wish," Poldron answered. "I have found a passably comfortable room at a place called Rose Cottage—since the police had ousted me from the inn... If you have no further questions—"

"Thank you, Mr. Poldron," he said at last. "It has been very good of you to take this trouble, and what you have told us has been very interesting... perhaps if there is anything further, I may take the liberty of calling to-morrow?"

Moreton turned, as the door closed behind their visitor, to meet Grasmere's worried frown. He laughed.

"Just as we thought," he said, and as he spoke moved over to the window. "Well, we'll try the other way... see you later, Colonel!"

In a moment he had flung open the window and lowered himself from the sill into the darkness outside.

CHAPTER XVII
The Shot from the Shrubbery

CONDEMNED to the uninspiring society of the sergeant, Elizabeth would have felt glad when the time came to go to bed if she had thought that there was the faintest possibility of sleeping. Though she closed her eyes in grim determination, sleep refused to come, and it must have been nearly midnight before the thought of lying there became unendurable. The room seemed stifling, and, realizing that her own window must have shared in the sergeant's careful locking up, at last she got out of bed and flinging open the casement, leant on the sill to drink in the cool night air.

Without much surprise she noticed that a light was still burning in the study, though it must have been nearly midnight. Her father had shut himself up to work earlier in the evening, apparently oblivious to such trifles as a murder and the attempt of the night before, and had hardly glanced up when she went in to say good night. From the long, narrow window, a yellow oblong of light streaming over the lawn showed that he was still busy. Automatically she found her eyes focussing upon it. All at once she started. On the edge of the lighted patch, near where the grass met the shrubbery, she had had a momentary impression of something which moved.

Fixing her eyes on the place, she waited. The dark bulk of the bushes was dimly visible, but there seemed to be nothing else. She was sure that she had seen something. The night was absolutely calm, and it could not have been any movement in the bushes in the wind. Several minutes passed, and she had almost decided that it had been imagination, when the matter was put beyond doubt. From the blackness of the shrubbery a shadowy figure detached itself, moved a pace or two forward into the light, and halted as if staring at the lighted window.

For an instant the thought of the murdered man made an eerie shiver run down her spine. Then she firmly dismissed the idea of anything supernatural. Whoever the midnight visitor might be, it was someone of flesh and blood, and almost certainly his presence signified danger. At the thought, she began to dress hurriedly, with continuous glances to the still figure of the watching man. She had no clue to his identity, and a dozen conjectures raced through her mind. Reaching for her shoes, for a second or two she had to take her eyes off the lighted patch of grass. When she looked again the stranger had moved. He was half-way across the space between the shrubbery and the house, and as the light fell upon his face she could see it clearly. With a little gasp of amazement she recognized her cousin.

Kinoulton was the last person she had expected. Her mind had been running on police watchers more subtle than the sergeant, or lurking members of Poldron's gang waiting to make a new attempt. Her cousin's presence was unaccountable. She could only think that some new development had made necessary an immediate and secret interview with her father, and that his intention was to knock at the window and obtain admission that way. As she finished dressing she hesitated. She could not play the spy upon her father, but somehow she had to know what was happening. As her cousin reached the window and tapped upon it gently, her mind was made up. She could at least meet him and demand an explanation of what had happened. In a moment she had crossed the room and had quietly opened the door.

The light in the hall was still burning. She knew that it was there that the sergeant had decided to pass an uncomfortable, if not entirely a wakeful night, and reaching the head of the stairs she looked over. Collins was stretched on the settle actually beside the door of the study. His eyes were closed but it was the lightest kind of doze, and he must wake if she passed him, and perhaps see Kinoulton as the door was opened. After a moment's hesitation she turned towards the door of the bathroom, below the window of which the roof of an outhouse offered a comparatively easy descent. Opening the window, she peered for a moment into the darkness. From that side of the house the light in the study was invisible. All was still. With a sudden resolution she lowered herself until her feet touched the sloping tiles, and a moment later dropped gently to the ground.

Her heart was beating wildly as she began the circuit of the house. Though she told herself that there was nothing to fear, with help within call, she was ready to start at any shadow by the time she reached the gateway leading on to the lawn. Fear itself had made her careful, and without a sound she hurried across the soft turf towards the corner of the house round which a yellow glow showed that the light was still burning.

As she looked towards the window she started. She had almost been too late. The first glance showed the figure of the man who was moving away from the house towards the shrubbery. She had no doubt that it was her cousin. Her one thought was to intercept him. She was on the point of calling his name when the thought of the sergeant inside the house made her pause. Instead, almost running, she began to make her way towards the drive at a place which Kinoulton would pass as he left the garden. Making her way through the bushes, she had reached it in a moment, and standing in the drive waited for her cousin's arrival.

The night was absolutely still. There was not a sound to show that she was not alone in the garden, but she was sure that no one could have passed her in time to go along the drive before she got there. Then a twig snapped. There was the rustling of the bushes; then a footstep sounded on the gravel. Along the drive towards the house, only a few yards away, a dark shape emerged from the shadows and came towards her. With an eager cry she advanced to meet it.

The approaching man halted. He did not answer, but seemed to stand for a moment staring towards her. Elizabeth felt a sudden doubt. Was it her cousin after all? She had been sure that she had recognized him. Then the explanation flashed upon her. Kinoulton had not recognized her voice. She called again.

A quick fear gripped her. Was the man in the darkness her cousin? Still he did not answer. As she heard him begin to walk stealthily towards her, her courage failed. With a subdued cry she turned and darted back into the bushes.

The low call quickened her flight rather than otherwise. Stumbling and panting, she realized all at once the absence of any sounds indicating pursuit. For a moment she stood listening. There was not a sound. With a burst of resolution she turned again and moving as quietly as possible in a minute or two had reached the drive. She looked up and down the track anxiously. There was no one there.

Momentarily she hesitated. The man had gone, but the vital questions remained, what had he wanted and in which direction had he gone. She had been sure that it was John who had tapped on the window, but it might not have been he whose back she had seen crossing the lawn. If not, who was it? Perhaps her cousin had not left the house. With a sudden resolution she decided that she must make sure; but for a moment she hesitated. Much as she shrank from the black depths of the shrubbery, the drive was more dangerous. Though the shadows might hide a lurking enemy, she herself was equally hidden, while to step out into the drive would be to reveal herself to any watcher. Summoning all her courage, she steeled herself to turn and retrace her steps towards the lawn, pausing fearfully at intervals to listen.

She had seen no sign of danger when a minute or two later she emerged upon the lawn, a little to the right of the study window where the light still shone. Keeping to the edge of the grass, ready to dive into the bushes at any second, she began to make her way along until she could look inside. She had almost gone far enough when a slight sound from the darkness ahead made her stop uncertainly. She stood transfixed, trembling a little. Right in front of her, something moved. With a gasp of sheer terror, she saw a dark shape which seemed to rise out of the ground. Then a familiar voice reassured her.

"Miss Hardwick! You! What—?" Moreton was scarcely less astonished than Elizabeth herself; then the explanation of her presence flashed upon him. "Ah! Your cousin! You saw him?"

For a moment Elizabeth could not answer. With a wave of relief she had recognized Moreton, but almost in the same instant the thought of what he might be doing there made her draw back.

"Quiet!" There was urgency in Moreton's low whisper. "No, I wasn't following your cousin," he continued in a voice which was barely audible. "I saw him go into the study through the window. But he's not your only visitor—"

"Poldron!" The name sprang to Elizabeth's lips, and in her alarm she spoke it aloud, forgetting Moreton's caution. "He's here?"

"It was he—he in the drive—?" Elizabeth broke off. "Or was it you who called to me?"

Moreton's hand gripped her arm, dragging her back into the shadows of the bushes.

"Perhaps he's gone." Moreton's hand was still upon her arm and she made no effort to shake it off. There was something comforting in his presence. "I think that he must have been going away. Thinking that it was John, I spoke to him. He recognized me and started towards where—"

Moreton had stiffened to a sudden attention, and his whisper broke in on her words incisively. Elizabeth had heard nothing, and as she strained her ears for the least sound it seemed to her that there was absolute silence except for the beating of her heart. For perhaps a minute they waited.

"You—you think he's still here?" In spite of herself Elizabeth gave a little shiver of fear. "But—but why?"

"You—you're waiting for him!" Her words were a whispered accusation. "You're trying—"

"I'm not trying to trap you into incriminating him." There was bitterness in Moreton's voice. "I suppose you think I am, but I'm not. Only neither he nor your father will explain.... I'm sure they didn't commit the murder, but I've got to find who did. Your father and Kinoulton lie to me; you won't tell what happens—"

Unconsciously he had forgotten his own warning and raised his voice. This time it was Elizabeth whose ears caught the faint sound in the shrubbery behind them. Her touch on his arm silenced him.

Moreton's quick ears did not need her direction. He had already caught the sound of a stealthy movement. There was no footfall; no more than an intermittent rustling of branches pushed aside or swinging back into position. The very place convinced Elizabeth that whoever was coming was unfamiliar with the garden. He had chosen one of the thicker patches, where the bunched rhododendrons made a noiseless passage impossible. The sounds were very close. She felt Moreton move slightly; then something gleamed in his hand, and she realized that he had drawn his gun.

There was a second or two of utter silence. The unknown, Elizabeth thought, had stopped to listen. Then her heart leaped violently as she saw the true explanation. The man was already on the grass. Directly opposite the study window, a vague shadow moved silently forward, then as her eyes focussed upon it trying desperately to pierce the darkness, she made out the figure of a man standing in a watching attitude. She almost held her breath. Was it her cousin? Or was it—?

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted. From the hand of the shadowy stranger a thin, pencil-like flame leaped suddenly in the darkness. There was the subdued clap of an explosion; then the tinkle of falling glass.

Moreton leaped forward even as the exclamation left his lips. A crashing of the bushes showed that the stranger had not waited to see the result of his attempt. In a moment Moreton too was swallowed up in the rhododendrons as he darted in pursuit.

Elizabeth stood petrified. She could not understand what had happened. With her eyes fixed upon the lighted window, she heard uncomprehendingly the receding sounds of the chase; then realization came with a burst of horror.

For a moment she could not move. Her muscles refused to obey the impulse to run forward across the grass. With a terrible dread in her heart she managed a faltering pace or two forward. She could see into the study; she could see the broken pane where the bullet had entered. Then with an inexpressible feeling of relief she saw something else. Her father was rising calmly from the chair at his desk and coming towards the window. He was safe.

As coolly as though a bullet through the window was an everyday happening, she saw him look at the Shivered fragments of glass, open the casement and peer out. In the same instant there was a sound of Shouting from inside the house; then a loud knocking. She saw her father look round. He crossed the room towards the door. Even as he stretched out his hand to grasp the key, he appeared to think better of opening it. He seemed to reflect for a moment; then his hand went towards the switch. The lights vanished suddenly.

Elizabeth had watched in a trance of fascination, but the very unexpectedness of her father's action seemed to bring her to herself. She started as if suddenly roused. Casting a quick glance towards the place where Moreton had disappeared, she began to run towards the house.

From the darkness ahead she could still hear the sound of the knocking on the door, but the note had changed. It was no longer a summons to open, but the heavy purposeful thud of something striking the panels as if trying to force an entrance. As she reached the window, the blows ceased; she heard a voice.

There was a pause while the speaker waited for a reply. With her hand actually touching the stonework, Elizabeth also waited. The open window was just above her, but from the room there was not a sound. Her father made no answer. Utterly at a loss, she stood there in dazed bewilderment wondering what was happening. Her father must be inside; she must get to him. Gripping the sill she raised herself up, and half in and half out of the room heard the voice call again.

She strained her ears as she hung there, alert for the least rustle or movement. There was nothing. With a tremendous thud something struck the door, and through the shattered panel she caught a glimpse of the lighted hall. As the hail of blows recommenced, she called desperately into the darkness.

"Daddy! Daddy! What is it?" Even above the noise of his own hammering her agonized cry might have reached the ears of the man outside. There was a sudden silence. "Daddy, answer me!"

There was no reply. Then, as she was in the very act of pulling herself up, with a horrified start she felt her ankle gripped.

CHAPTER XVIII
A Chase in the Dark

A DOZEN questions raced through Moreton's mind as he thrust his way savagely through the black maze of the shrubbery. Who could the man be? Had he killed Hardwick? What had been the object of the attempt? His best chance of finding answers seemed to be to catch the man in front, and putting them from his mind he concentrated his whole attention on the chase.

Not twenty seconds had separated the shot from Moreton's dive into the bushes, but he was soon wondering whether even the short interval had not been too long. He could not run. All his efforts were needed even to find a path through the interlaced boughs, and it was small comfort to know that the man ahead must have equal difficulty. Only a few yards away he could hear the other's crashing progress. The branches resisted him maddeningly. Conscious that he had not gained a foot, he held on grimly, tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground, and with the twigs tearing at his clothes and face. Continually he strained his ears to catch the sounds which were his only guide, hardly aware of direction. Suddenly he realized that they had stopped.

On the instant he had halted. It flashed upon him that he himself could have been no more silent than the man whom he was pursuing; the man must have known that he was being chased. What was he doing? Peering through the shadows towards where he had last heard his quarry, he listened.

From ahead there was not a sign of the fugitive, but the night seemed puzzlingly full of sounds. Behind him, presumably from the house, came a confused dull hammering which he could not identify. His thoughts flashed to Elizabeth. She would have gone to the house, but the sergeant's presence there seemed a guarantee of her safety. But there were other noises. From the wood he heard the squawk of a frightened pheasant, and to the right, some distance away, he seemed to hear the crackling of bushes thrust aside. It seemed as though the whole countryside was roused. Only from in front, where a moment before he had heard his man distinctly, not a sound came.

His hand slid to his pocket. Drawing his gun, he began to creep forward with infinite caution. The man must be lying in wait for him, perhaps to attack, perhaps only in the hope that he would go by. Try as he would to be silent, he was painfully aware that his progress was audible. It comforted him as proving that the other man could not be creeping off under cover of the darkness, but every second he expected to see the flash of a gun from the shadows. His chance of making any effective reply was negligible. He was on the point of stopping to listen again when, thrusting his way through a clump of rhododendrons, he suddenly understood.

The stranger had not halted. They had reached the drive, and on the smooth surface he would have had no difficulty in making off quietly while Moreton was creeping through the shrubs. Gaining the roadway in a bound, Moreton stared through the semi-darkness towards the lodge-gates. He had a momentary fancy of a moving shadow some distance away; then, faintly, but distinctly, he heard the pad-pad-pad of running feet.

With a speed which exasperation increased, Moreton set off in pursuit. He had still hope. Neither Poldron nor Kinoulton—and one of them, he felt sure, must be the man he was chasing—was his match in a straight race. Sprinting his hardest, he felt certain that he must be gaining. By the time the gates were reached, he should be near enough to tell which way the other turned, and his ears would warn him if his quarry diverged from the roadway again.

He was nearing the lodge when he saw something. It was the merest flash of light, like the instantaneous pressing on and off of a switch, but he was sure that he had not been mistaken. It showed that his man was still ahead, and judging by the distance, Moreton thought that he had gained considerably. But he was puzzled. Why should the man deliberately reveal his presence to the man who he knew must be behind? He must have needed a light desperately for something. He wished that the intervening bushes had not hidden from him whatever the flash had revealed.

Reaching the gate he stopped, trying to control his gasps for breath as he sought to distinguish the sound of the other's running. Then he heard something, but not the beat of footsteps which he had expected. It was the faintest crunching of the gravel as though someone standing in the lane outside had stirred a little. His gun leaped up.

There was no reply. Moreton's free hand stole to the pocket where he kept his torch. He could risk the shot which might come out of the darkness if he could only get a glimpse of his opponent. His fingers failed to find it. Somehow it must have dropped out during his struggles in the shrubbery. Cautiously he advanced a step and reiterated his warning.

"My gun's pointing dead at you!" he said more hopefully than truthfully. "Come forward, slowly!"

There was an answer of a sort. From the lane came a low whistle. On the very point of dashing forward to the place from which it had come, Moreton whirled at a footstep right behind him, instinctively raising his left hand to ward off the unforeseen danger. The action saved him. A sickening blow struck his arm, glancing off on to his head. He fell with a groan.

Dazed and helpless, Moreton seemed to hear the words coming to him from an immense distance away. He realized dimly what had happened. The man who had fired was not alone. Some confederate hidden in the gateway had struck at him, and but for his upraised arm he would have been completely knocked out. As it was, he was half stunned. His limbs twitched helplessly as he strove unsuccessfully to rise; then a sudden instinct made him lie still.

"Who is it?" Moreton did not recognize the voice, but it was certainly not either Poldron or Kinoulton.

A torch flashed upon him for an instant. He was lying face downwards, but he was thankful that the light was only switched on and off again.

"Moreton, by God!" This time he was in no doubt of the speaker. It was Strelley, and there was a suppressed rage in his words. He took a quick step forward. "Here, let me finish the blighter!"

"Don't be a damn fool!" The second man was alarmed and moved between his companion and the prostrate man. "There's no need. He's out!"

Strelley seemed indisposed to give way. Moreton was as brave as most men, but he was conscious of a sickening helplessness which made his heart jump painfully. He could not get up. In the fall he must have dropped his gun. He could only lie there waiting for the blow.

"You're mad!" His companion persisted with a scared note in his voice. "We've enough already, without—"

"What's that?" The question came gruffly from the lane. Moreton could not swear to the voice, but the speaker was hoarse and breathless and he knew it must be the man whom he had pursued. "Come on, or—"

The unfinished threat seemed to convince Strelley. Reluctantly he moved away, grumbling under his breath. Moreton heard the footsteps recede, and with a tremendous effort, managed to sit up. So far he got, but standing was more than he could do. A numbing ache filled his forearm, and his head throbbed painfully. He swayed dizzily fighting the blackness which threatened to overwhelm him, vaguely conscious that the three had turned along the lane in the direction of the Abbey. Every instinct urged him to follow, but for a minute the action was beyond him. Then he rose weakly to his feet.

Even thought was an effort. He staggered instinctively towards the lane without any special idea what he proposed to do. His foot struck something that gave a metallic sound on the stones, and almost falling as he did so, he stooped down and retrieved his lost gun. He had to clutch at the gatepost to remain upright, and as he clung there his mind cleared a little. Urgent as it was to follow the three men, in his present condition he was only too clearly incapable of doing so. He must get help. At the Manor there was the sergeant; more important, there was a telephone. He began to stagger weakly up the drive.

It seemed an enormous distance to the house, but he was feeling better. With a rush of fear there came to him a new reason why he should go to the Manor, and at the thought he exclaimed aloud.

Suddenly he had recalled the strange sound which had seemed to come from the direction of the house while he was listening in the shrubbery. In the heat of the chase he had dismissed it, relying on the sergeant's presence. Now, too late the realization of the inadequacy of Collins, or any one man, to deal with attacks on the scale which these crooks seemed to be making came to him painfully. And Elizabeth was at the house. At the thought, he broke into a shambling run.

All kinds of horrible possibilities crossed his mind as he rounded the final bend of the drive and looked eagerly towards the house. Then he stopped. A choking dread gripped him and his heart seemed to stop beating. He stood staring, unable to believe his own eyes. The whole place was in absolute darkness.

For a moment he stood there helplessly. He had expected—he hardly knew what he had expected, but certainly not this. Even from the study windows not a glimmer of light showed. And there was not a sound. Only the black bulk of the house showed against the sky, wrapped in a silence as if all its occupants were sleeping peacefully. At a run he started across the lawn.

Reaching the study window he halted and looked about him. The whole place might have been deserted. His groping hand touched the opening of the window. After a moment's hesitation he gripped it firmly and though his weakness made the action a struggle, in a moment had pulled himself through.

Just inside the window he waited. There was the same stillness, the same darkness. He had the indescribable feeling of emptiness that an unoccupied house gives. There was not a sign of any living presence. Then as the thought came to him of what else the room might hold, he crossed the floor in three strides and pressed the switch. Blinking in the sudden glare, he looked around him.

His first glance showed that the room held none of the horrors he had feared. At first it seemed as though the shattered window alone proved that the whole thing was not a dream. His eyes followed the probable line of the bullet, and then he saw the mark on the opposite wall. The shot had missed Hardwick; but where was he? Where was Elizabeth? And the sergeant? His eyes fell on the shattered panel of the door to which he had had his back as he put on the lights. The hammering which he had heard seemed to be accounted for, but the mystery was hardly less. Throwing it open, he looked out into the hall, noting the chair of which a broken leg showed the purpose for which it had been used. All at once the suspense seemed unendurable. He called aloud in a voice which seemed to echo through the house.

There was only the silence which he had feared. With an awful feeling of disaster he began to search the house. The task proved unexpectedly easy. Except for the study, all the rooms on the ground floor were locked, and the keys, presumably, were with the missing sergeant. Upstairs it was the same, except for two bedrooms, evidently those of Hardwick and his daughter, and the bathroom where the open window might have provided a means of entrance or exit.

He regained the hall with a feeling of dazed bewilderment. Perhaps ten minutes or a little more ago, three people at least had been in the house or its neighbourhood. All of them had vanished. Weak from his exertion, he had to sit down for a moment while he tried to reason out the position. He realized all too clearly that he was in no condition to do so. He must get help immediately. At the sight of the telephone, he cursed himself for his stupidity, and leaping across to it, almost snatched the receiver.

He had begun to speak almost as soon as the receiver was off the hook. Listening impatiently for a reply, it came to him suddenly that it was useless. The line was dead. Replacing the receiver with the carefulness of despair, he stood thinking for a moment before making for the front door. That, too, was fastened, but he was able to pull back the bolts. Closing it behind him, he drew a long breath of the cool night air and started at the best pace he could manage towards the lodge.

The mystery of the house would have to wait. He was weak and shaken and uncertain how long his strength would last. There might, or might not, be something terrible behind the locked doors of the rooms into which he had not been able to penetrate, but it was out of the question that he should make any attempt to force them. He would be lucky if he stood the course long enough to get help, and as he went down the drive he had to concentrate hard in order to think what he should do.

The nearest telephone was at the Abbey, and distance was a vital factor. Whether he could reach it he did not know, but he could certainly go no further. That Kinoulton himself was a suspect, and had been on the premises was a drawback, but there was no help for it. He was not afraid of violence at the house. There would be servants, ordinary respectable servants, and even if Kinoulton were guilty, he dare try nothing. Then another thought came to him. Grasmere had put a policeman on to watch the house. He would still be there....

It was only as he turned along the lane outside the lodge-gates that it occurred to him that in this itself there was a new puzzle. Had Kinoulton eluded the watcher, or had the watcher gone with him to the Manor? And what had become of both of them? Even in his normal state of mind it would have been difficult enough; with his head playing him curious tricks, and his legs giving underneath him, each new problem only increased a state of stunned bewilderment in which only fear for what might have happened to Elizabeth stood out with painful clearness.

Perhaps only this sustained him. He was very nearly done when he reached the gate leading to the Abbey. While he knew that his eyes and ears ought to be alert for any hostile presence, anything more than merely keeping his feet was beyond him. Negotiating the gateway successfully, not without a foolish feeling of pride, he had started down the last part of his journey when he tripped over an unexpected obstacle, and just saved himself from falling headlong.

On the point of staggering on his way, something about the feeling of what his foot had touched penetrated to his consciousness. The shock of the thought seemed to brace him; he fell rather than stooped to see what it was. For the moment it seemed to elude his groping hand. Then he touched something which made him draw his hand back quickly, something warm and soft. It was a man's cheek. Desperately fumbling for matches, he finally succeeded in striking one and looked down at the prostrate man. Then an exclamation escaped him.

The face which seemed to swim before his eyes in the flickering light of the match was that of the detective who had been set to watch Kinoulton.

CHAPTER XIX
A Flight and a Meeting

INSTINCTIVELY Elizabeth resisted the grip that pulled her from the window; then she dropped to the ground and turned to face Kinoulton.

She broke off as the more urgent danger recurred to her, looking back to the window.

"He's all right!" Kinoulton broke in upon her words with a desperate impatience. "Come away, for Heaven's sake—"

The hammering on the door had started again. All at once there was the crash of splitting wood as the shattered panel gave way. For a moment a ray of light from the hall lit up the windows. Then it vanished. Elizabeth still hesitated. There was the click of a key in the lock. Her cousin's hand gripped her arm, dragging her away.

"Come—please come!" he begged. "For the sake of all of us—your father too—"

Still holding back, Elizabeth allowed herself to be pulled a few paces. From behind them came a shout.

She recognized the sergeant's voice and realized all at once that it must have been he who had broken the door. The beam of a torch flashed from the window. Her fear of the police suddenly revived. She began to run in earnest. Kinoulton led the way along the side of the house, avoiding the beam of light which wavered across the lawn towards the shrubbery. They had passed the front door and were nearing the corner of the house when it seemed to leap towards them.

"Here, you! Stop!" She heard the sergeant's bellow more clearly and understood that he was outside the house. Even at that distance the light of the torch gave her a horrible feeling of exposure, though, to the sergeant pounding behind them, it was regrettably insufficient. But his next words showed that he had seen something. "Miss Hardwick! Miss Hardwick!"

The shout acted as an additional incentive to hasten their flight. She heard her cousin exclaim in fear or annoyance; then they turned the house corner, and for a moment, though his shouts still reached them, were out of range of the sergeant's light.

Instantly Kinoulton swerved to the left across the grass. She understood where he was making for. At the side of the house a grass track led to what had once been a tennis court; beyond that were the fields; but the sergeant was close behind, and in spite of his forty years, running more quickly than Elizabeth. The flash of the light showed that he had rounded the corner just as they reached the entrance to the track; then the white beam shot across the grass towards them.

She heard Kinoulton give a muttered curse. Just too late he dived for the bushes. Elizabeth, following him, felt the light upon her. Behind, the sergeant gave a view-halloo.

"He saw me!" Conscious of the approaching light, she gripped her cousin's arm in an agony of impatience, dragging him forward. "Hurry! He'll come!"

The next second proved the truth of her fears. Even the moment's delay had almost proved fatal. The sergeant was making straight for their hiding-place, but he was not hurrying. Elizabeth guessed that he was listening, trying to determine whether they were still running. Kinoulton made a quick movement. Something gleamed in his hand. A horrified realization came to her.

The clap of the explosion broke in upon her protest. Certainly the muzzle of the pistol could not have been pointing anywhere in the direction of the sergeant, but the shot achieved its purpose. The light went out. She pictured the sergeant waiting on the lawn a little doubtfully. In a moment he would recover from his fright. Kinoulton laughed savagely.

Even better than her cousin, Elizabeth knew every inch of the Manor grounds, and in this respect the sergeant was hopelessly handicapped. They were out of the clump of bushes before the sergeant entered it. Darting along the track which lay beyond, Elizabeth swerved sharply down a side-path. A moment brought them to the boundary wall, and helped by her cousin, Elizabeth dropped to the other side with a sigh of relief. For a moment she could not move. She lay panting and exhausted, drawing her breath in deep gasps. Kinoulton's arm came about her, lifting her up.

Only her cousin's support enabled her to manage the last few yards across the field. As they reached a gateway, Kinoulton stopped. They stood looking back towards the Manor.

A flicker of light which for a moment threw into relief the outline of the wall showed where the sergeant was still, presumably, hunting for the fugitives in the shrubbery. Trying to get her breath, Elizabeth watched it, grateful for the reassurance it gave that they had thrown off the pursuit. The gleam appeared intermittently, now flashing towards them, now focussing on the trees and bushes in the grounds. Evidently the sergeant was making a thorough search, apparently moving along the wall down towards the gate.

"We'd better get on." Kinoulton fumbled with the gate fastening. "You never know—"

"But, John!" she protested. "I don't understand... Why—why are we running from the Sergeant? Why did you fire? My father—"

"I'll tell you all about it later," her cousin answered after a pause. "We're running from the sergeant because it's important to keep out of his way for an hour or two, till we get things straightened out... I only fired to scare him. We must get on."

"Your father's all right. The shot missed him. He dropped out of the window just as you started across the lawn. He's to be at the Abbey in half an hour. Who was that with you—Moreton? How did you come to be outside?"

"I saw you from the window. Then I thought someone was you in the drive, but it wasn't. Inspector Moreton found me on the lawn."

Kinoulton seemed to gather enough about what had happened from a statement which hardly erred on the side of detail.

"He chased the man into the bushes?" he asked. "I wonder which it was—and if he got him?"

"If he did, it makes it all the more important," he said desperately. "Elizabeth, we must go! You—you're not afraid of me?"

Perhaps it was the last words which decided Elizabeth. Her cousin might or might not be a criminal, even a murderer, but the idea of being frightened of him was preposterous. Her father was going to the Abbey to meet him. She was to hear the truth at last. She took her cousin's arm without a word, and he led the way forward. They had walked half-way across the field in silence before at last Elizabeth spoke.

"Yes," Kinoulton assented briefly. "I'd fixed that with your father—before we thought that you'd seen anything. I've got to meet him. And, after all, you'd better hear it too."

There was bitterness in his voice. Elizabeth did not know what to say. She liked her cousin, even if she had always thought him stiff and reserved, and removed from her by what seemed the immeasurable space of twenty years. More and more clearly she knew that she did not love him, and at the thought, it was the image of Moreton which came before her eyes. But whether he was guilty or not, she was conscious of an immense pity for the man beside her. After a considerable interval he spoke again.

"Of course, it was fine of you to say that we were engaged," he said evenly. "But I quite understood. I was proud—proud that you should care enough for me to do it, but it means nothing."

"It means nothing!" he repeated violently; then his voice became suddenly gentle. "It can't mean anything, Elizabeth. You don't love me. It was just sympathy, and the fact that you were annoyed with Moreton—wasn't it?"

Elizabeth did not answer. Though she knew what he said to be true, she could not bring herself to admit it. Kinoulton spoke again with a calm decision.

"John!" There was utter amazement in Elizabeth's voice, but it was more at her cousin's calm announcement than at the idea. She was grateful for the darkness which hid her face. For a second she could not speak. She struggled falteringly for a denial. "It—it's absurd. I only saw him the day before yesterday. It's never been mentioned—"

"You're in love with Moreton," Kinoulton interrupted quietly but positively. "And I think he's fond of you."

"It—it's ridiculous!" Elizabeth laughed angrily, but in spite of herself her heart leaped at her cousin's words. "You—you're being utterly absurd, John. Of course—"

Kinoulton had not paid the least attention to her protests. As she stopped, momentarily at a loss to say what was a matter of course, he went on with perfect calm.

"It's all to the good. He's a decent chap—I think." He laughed, suddenly and unexpectedly, with genuine mirth, but with a note of something in it which Elizabeth did not understand. "That's perhaps the biggest joke of this affair," he explained apologetically. "Moreton comes down here to track us down—no, I'm being unjust. It wasn't fair of me, Elizabeth, to suggest that he came to your house to spy upon you. You don't think that now?"

"No," Elizabeth replied in a voice which was barely audible. "But, John, don't talk of it. It—it hurts you—"

"No, I think I'm glad!" There was a curious exultation in his voice. "I want you to be happy... And now, when we don't know what's going to happen to either of us—"

"What do you mean?" Her confused emotions suddenly gave place to fear. "What do you mean?"

"I'll go so far, at this moment," he said after a pause. "Both your father and I are in a pretty curious position. I don't know how it will turn out. Almost certainly it will mean a lot of unpleasantness for one or both of us. If Moreton were fond of you, that wouldn't put him off, would it? You've no other relations...."

His voice trailed away, but Elizabeth could not bring herself to question him. A terrible fear seemed to be gripping her heart as the trend of what her cousin was saying dawned upon her. In the same moment exactly what he had suggested seemed to occur to Kinoulton.

"I'm a fool!" he said angrily. "Don't think of it, Elizabeth. It will be all right..."

Elizabeth found no conviction in his words. They walked without speaking almost to the gateway leading into the lane. Suddenly Kinoulton stopped, gripping her arm fiercely and pulling her into the shadow of the hedge.

They waited breathlessly. Certainly someone was coming along the track from the direction of the village. Elizabeth wondered who it could be, and her mind flew to Moreton. Suppose the man whom he had been pursuing had come in this direction. With the suspicions which he must feel about her cousin, all the more after seeing him at the Manor just before the shot was fired, it would be his natural course to go to the Abbey to make inquiries. The footsteps drew nearer.

All at once she realized that there was certainly more than one man. She fancied that she heard someone mutter a low question, and another man reply. After what seemed an age the party passed the gateway. She counted three men, but it was too dark to see who they might be. They were walking quickly, almost running. There was no more conversation. Kinoulton's hand gripped her arm reassuringly.

The same thought had occurred to Elizabeth. The three men were out of sight, but she more than half expected that their destination must be the very house to which her cousin was taking her. Every moment she thought that she heard the click of the drive gate. Then, farther up the lane, beyond the turning to the Abbey, she heard one of the men cough. Kinoulton rose cautiously to his feet, peering over the hedge in the direction which they had taken.

"That's just what's troubling me," her cousin confessed. "Poldron? In that case his men have joined him, and he's thrown off Moreton—that is, if it was Poldron who fired. And where are they going? Apparently not to my house...."

"Not likely," Kinoulton broke in. "Moreton had the sergeant at the Manor, and the man watching me. And he seems to have been on the job himself. He'd hardly have three more strolling round in a batch, just on the chance of something happening which he can't have any grounds for knowing about—" He broke off. The three men had disappeared, but he still stood staring up the lane. "Moreton can't know!" he repeated with less assurance. "Anyway, where could they be going? For a midnight walk on the downs? Or—?"

"Yes." Kinoulton started towards the gate. "We'll have to keep a look out for my shadower. He should be watching the light in my bedroom window—that's the other side of the house. But we'll have to look out."

As the drive gate closed behind them, Elizabeth was conscious of a sudden hesitation. She did not believe for a moment that her cousin intended any harm; but the more she thought of the sudden disappearance from the Manor of all its occupants for this midnight council, the more foolish it seemed. Surely it was more likely to increase the suspicions of the police than anything else. What were the three men doing who had passed them in the lane? Why had Moreton put a detective on to watch the Abbey, unless he suspected her cousin? In that case, when they were missing, the Abbey would be the first place the police would come to. How could they explain? Even her own story was ridiculously improbable.

Kinoulton seemed to sense something of what she was thinking, for he spoke reassuringly.

"Of course, the police will be here soon," he said. "But they don't know I've left the place—"

"But they do!" Elizabeth burst out. "Inspector Moreton recognized you when you left the study."

"What?" Kinoulton's brief question held a note of fear. "You're sure? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think," Elizabeth confessed. "He spoke to me on the lawn, just before the shot was fired. He mentioned your name...."

"Then the question is, where's Moreton?" he asked, speaking to himself. "And how long have we got?"

"There's another thing—what will your servants think?" Elizabeth began, realizing as she spoke the ridiculousness of the consideration of such a detail compared with their other difficulties.

"They won't see. We'll go in by the side-door. It's that detective I'm worrying about... Would you mind waiting here a minute? I'd better scout round—"

Without waiting for Elizabeth's reply, in a moment he had slipped off into the darkness, disappearing like a shadow. They had actually reached the grounds of the Abbey; the house was only a short distance ahead. She tried to convince herself that it was all right; that the worst danger was her discovery by the detective, with the awkward questions which it might bring. Somehow she had the sense of impending danger, and as she waited, little sounds from the garden in which she stood seemed to have an increasing significance.

Kinoulton had gone off towards the left, presumably to see if the detective was still watching the bedroom window. But surely someone was moving in the orchard on the opposite side of the house? She listened intently. For half a minute there was not a sound; then clear and distinct in the stillness, she heard the snapping of a twig.

Her heart was beating violently. Staring towards the place, she waited, but the noise was not repeated. She tried to persuade herself that it was imagination, or perhaps a prowling animal. At the very worst it might be the detective making a round of the house. She would have given anything to make sure. On the point of moving towards the sound, she realized that if she did, Kinoulton might not be able to find her. She could only wait where she was, straining her eyes to pierce the gloom and fearful every moment of some confirmation of her fears. She was so intent on watching the place from which the sound had come that Kinoulton came up unobserved behind her. She swung round with a gasp.

"Quiet!" her cousin implored. "I can't find the man. He's moved from where he was—naturally—"

"There was something—someone over there!" Elizabeth faltered. "A twig snapped—there were noises—"

"Good. He's probably making the rounds.... But if he's there we're all right. We'll risk it. This way."

Elizabeth could not share his assurance. As she followed him, she glanced back nervously once or twice as they crossed the grass towards the side-door. Now she remembered it, she reflected that certainly there was no fear of observation by the servants. They slept in the further wing, and the side-door, made by some previous tenant of the Abbey, gave access to the room which Kinoulton used as a study, through a short passage. It was not any violation of the proprieties, but the hidden dangers of the darkness outside that she feared. She gave a sigh of relief as her cousin unlocked the door and stepped inside.

He had closed the double doors carefully before he pressed the switch, and Elizabeth saw that the shutters and curtains had been put over the windows. The fire was still burning in the grate, and he led her to a chair beside it, seating himself opposite to her.

For a moment he seemed to be wondering how to begin. He sat frowning into the fire, with his lips shaping words which he did not speak. Elizabeth had always thought him relatively an old man, but now he seemed suddenly to have aged still more. Looking up, he caught her eyes upon him, and smiled mirthlessly.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I've a lot that I ought to tell you—and I'm just wondering how I'm going to say it."

CHAPTER XX
Kinoulton Explains

ELIZABETH waited impatiently, but even then Kinoulton hesitated, biting his lip and tapping nervously on the arm of his chair.

"About my father?" Elizabeth asked after a long silence. "About—about what has happened?"

Kinoulton seemed to reach a sudden decision. He sat up a little straighter in his chair and leant forward.

"How it concerns your father, I tell you honestly I don't know," he said at last. "Until a day or two ago, I'd no idea that it concerned him at all. It's the way he's been behaving since Buckfast and the other three came that makes me think it does, and candidly, now that the idea has come to me, I'm afraid."

"Afraid for him?" Elizabeth burst out, and there was indignation as well as fear in her voice. "You don't—you can't mean—the police—"

"I'd better tell everything," he said abruptly. "Though I've prayed that I'd never have to tell it to a soul. And to you, it's all the harder. I'd almost as soon confess to Moreton and have done with it!" He laughed shortly; then his face set hard as he saw the pain in hers and he deliberately averted his eyes before he continued in a low, even voice.

"It starts years ago. You were at school—I— well, I'd just come out of the army, and was having a good time in town. I went the pace thoroughly, got badly in debt, and did one or two very silly things. I might have gone to gaol, if I couldn't find some money. As you know, my father had died while I was in France. I came back home with the desperate intention of tackling my grandfather—though there wasn't a dog's chance of his giving me what I wanted."

Kinoulton paused for a moment, glanced across at her as if to see how she was taking it, then hurriedly looked away.

"It was while I was here that the man who was pressing me hardest, a shark called Culman, came down and made me a proposition. If I could prove that I inherited under my grandfather's will, he'd let me have the money to pay the others and hold off himself. I was pretty desperate, and knowing that it was impossible I said some pretty stupid things. Anyone might have overheard, and someone did."

"Yes." This time Kinoulton did not look at her. "After Culman had gone, he came and told me, and threatened blackmail. I simply laughed at him, because I'd no money to pay. Then he made an amazing proposition. Afterwards I realized that he'd had previous association with Culman and it was a put-up job. It was that we should break into my grandfather's house, photograph the will and show it to Culman. He'd be my witness too, that it was all right. And apparently he'd fixed it all up with Culman."

"But Culman would never have accepted evidence like that!" Elizabeth broke in. "Besides, the will might have been changed—"

"But he did!" Kinoulton answered. "And afterwards I saw why. They felt sure I'd inherit something. What they wanted wasn't evidence of the will, but a hold on me. And, in the end they got it. I was sick with worry, and finally I took the plunge. There didn't seem anything very wrong in it... we broke in and did it."

"But was there?" Elizabeth was puzzled by the agony of his face. "It was wrong, of course, but—"

Kinoulton raised a face which was a mere mask of rigid lines and looked her full in the eyes. It was half a minute before he spoke, in a toneless, even voice.

"That was the night my grandfather died," he said at last. "He fell downstairs."

For a moment Elizabeth did not understand. Then her eyes grew wide with horror as the sudden realization came to her.

"My grandfather was murdered," Kinoulton continued in the same toneless voice. "The idea never occurred to anyone. His death was accepted as an accident. But it was not."

Elizabeth could only gaze at him, waiting with parted lips. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Then Kinoulton's control gave way suddenly.

"I didn't do it—I didn't!" he burst out. "I didn't do it... You can't believe me, of course—but Elizabeth, you must believe me!"

Elizabeth drew a deep breath which was mainly relief. The colour flooded back into her face and in a sudden impulse she bent forward and laid her hand on her cousin's arm.

Kinoulton's eyes blazed into her own for a moment; then, quite gently, he removed the hand from his arm and looked away again.

"That makes it easier," he said in a voice which trembled a little. "But you can see that no one else would have believed it. My grandfather was killed while I was in the house unlawfully, for the purpose of raising money on an inheritance from him, and with the alternative of going to gaol. It was even worse than that. The will left me everything. As you know, my grandfather had quarrelled with your grandfather, Theodore's father. He made a will leaving everything to his daughter and her issue. But he seemed to have heard something about me. I have reason to believe that he was thinking of changing it. In fact, I saw the unsigned draft—and it reversed the position completely. The money would have come to your father if he'd lived another day.... And what made it harder was that Theodore would never accept a penny from me.

"We got in easily. Shoreham did odd jobs about the place in the day time and fixed everything. He had even located the safe and had a key to the lock of the drawer—it wasn't in the safe. He got in first, and after a longer interval than I'd expected, opened a window for me. Everything was quiet. Shoreham kept watch down below while I did the photographing—it used to be a hobby of mine, I'd just done it when I heard a door open. The flash, or something else, must have roused him."

"That's why I'm so sure it was murder," he continued with an effort. "From the place where I was, I could actually see the head of the stairs. He never reached it. There was a little light through the open door, and I was staring right at the place where I expected him to come. I heard him call out, not loudly: 'Who's that?' then he gave a sort of gasp, and cried something like, 'No, you don't.' Then there was a thud. It wasn't a very loud noise. He fell on the stones. He never made a sound afterwards."

"What—what did you do?" Elizabeth had listened in fascinated horror. She believed every word that John was saying. "How—"

"I didn't do anything." Kinoulton smiled grimly. "I was too stunned to move. I just waited for the servants to rush out and find me there—I somehow felt sure he was dead. They didn't come. I heard Shoreham creep up the stairs and thought they were coming. I'd closed my eyes and then he was in the room."

"That's the point. He dragged me outside before the alarm was given, and even went back to see that everything was all right. As you know the maids found my grandfather next morning. There was no suspicion of foul play.... By the time he came out, I'd come to myself a bit. I felt he must have done it somehow. I taxed him with it—I was going to dash back into the house. Then he threatened me, and when I came to think of it, his story was more likely than mine—and my motive was greater."

"That's what I'd like to know. I thought so, at first. Thinking it over, I can't see how he could possibly have got upstairs and down again. I heard him come up after it had happened. And my nerves were on edge. I should have noticed anything. No, in the end I decided that the truth was something incredible. Neither of us did it. There was someone else in the house—the murderer."

The lines had softened a little in Kinoulton's face with the relief of speaking; now it suddenly grew hard again.

"But—I don't see—" Elizabeth began and broke off. "Why should this have happened now?"

"That was the most idiotic part of the whole thing," Kinoulton answered bitterly. "The photograph business was unnecessary then, of course. But we neither of us trusted the other, and we daren't tell what I'm pretty sure was the truth. In the end, we each wrote out an account of what we had seen and heard and signed them, making two copies of each statement. Each of us took one. I destroyed mine a few days ago—"

"Destroyed it when I heard that Shoreham was dead. He told me that his was in a place where it would never be found, and that he'd arrange for it to be destroyed if he died first. He did. He was hanged under the name of Remshaw."

"Oh!" Suddenly she had understood the significance of the cuttings which she had found. "But—but still—"

"Shoreham had let me down—or else Bovey let him down. He'd told Bovey a good deal at some time in his life—not everything, but where the papers lay, and the name of the house—not even where it was. Of course, the papers were under the stone in the back kitchen. Someone got them."

"He's the puzzle. And what his game is, I can't make out. Perhaps he wants the papers to blackmail me, but if so, he's taking desperate risks. The killing of Bovey—"

"I—I don't know." For some reason Kinoulton seemed more affected by the mention of it even than by the description of his grandfather's death. "I know that I didn't. I was waiting for him. He—he was going to try and get the paper. He said he could talk round the maid. Then I saw Poldron coming down the drive, and just slipped into the side-path a little way. I could see the place—and I saw someone else."

He stopped. Elizabeth looked her inquiry. Then as he remained silent, realization came to her. A cry of anguish burst from her lips.

"Yes, your father," Kinoulton said in a voice which was hardly audible. "He lied in his statement. I lied in mine. You know why."

"But—but it couldn't have been!" Elizabeth blazed out. "You—you're saying that to—"

"To clear myself? Yes, I suppose I deserve that. But think—has there been nothing else about your father's actions which strikes you as—well, as out of the ordinary?"

Elizabeth could not speak. She covered her face in her hands. Kinoulton looked at her with a tortured expression in silence.

"No, of course he had no reason," Kinoulton assented hastily, but his tone carried no conviction. "Of course not."

Something in the tone of his voice made her realize his thoughts. She sprang to her feet, and gazed at him in utter horror.

"No!" he said violently. "I don't believe it! There's some explanation. I had to have it. That's why I went there to-night. He was sitting at his desk addressing the envelope for one of his pamphlets. He didn't seem surprised to see me. I told him the truth, briefly. He said he'd think it over, and speak with me again—as though it wasn't of any importance at all! Just then, he said he was busy. He would come here in about half an hour. I left the study by the window, as I had entered. I'd no idea anyone else was in the garden. I thought there was just that thick-witted sergeant. Then the shot came. I was still in sight of the window. I ran forward when I saw what had happened. The light went out—and I ran right into Theodore. He only said 'In half an hour' and went on!"

"I heard you call. I didn't know what had happened, but I knew that the police would be on the scene—at least the sergeant. I thought you'd better know how things were before you said anything to them."

He stopped. Elizabeth stood swaying a little, with her hand to her throat. She could not speak.

"I don't believe he's guilty of either," Kinoulton persisted. "How could he be, unless he was mad or something? But he'll explain himself. He should be here soon. Don't judge at all. Wait until he comes. We shall know—"

Just in time he caught her as she was on the point of falling, and for a moment she lay limply in his arms. Then her eyelids flickered, and her lips moved feebly.

Kinoulton's face was transfigured as he lowered her gently into the chair. Even in his pain, if she had glanced at him, she would have seen the adoration in his look. But for the moment she lay back with closed eyes.

"Elizabeth, I had to." Kinoulton spoke firmly. "You had to know. It was just because I did love you so much that I could bring myself to hurt you like this—in the hope of helping you.... This was why I said I could never marry you. I never thought you'd believe me about—about my grandfather. Besides, while there is any possibility of this being brought against me, how could I marry you? And you don't love me.... Only believe me when I tell you that it will be all right. Your father will be here—"

"Daddy!" As if a new fear had suddenly struck her, Elizabeth sat upright. Her eyes sought the clock in the corner. "But—but where is he? You said he would be here in half an hour—"

Only then Kinoulton realized that the time had easily been passed. It must have been nearly three-quarters of an hour since he had left Hardwick.

"He may have been delayed," he said hastily, but his own misgivings found expression in his voice. "It's not long after the time—"

"Suppose—suppose he was guilty?" Elizabeth whispered voicelessly. "Suppose he was afraid. Perhaps he's dead...."

"He's not!" Kinoulton's vehemence betrayed him. "You mustn't think it. He's not the kind of man to commit suicide—"

The sound of a gentle knocking on the door broke in on his words. Elizabeth jumped to her feet eagerly.

She would have flown across the room and opened it, but Kinoulton gripped her arm.

"The police!" All at once the joy died from her face and she faced him hopelessly, as the knock sounded again. "For—for you—or him..."

"We've got to see." Kinoulton let go her hand and glanced towards the door. "After all, it may be your father. Wait here, I'll answer it."

Between hope and fear, Elizabeth stood staring as the inner swing doors closed behind him. Then her hope vanished as she caught the words of the man who had knocked.

She did not recognize the voice, and from his tone, she guessed that her cousin did not either.

She heard Kinoulton exclaim sharply. The swing door moved and was all at once thrust open. A man stood in the doorway, and at the sight of him she started back with a terrified cry. It was Poldron.

CHAPTER XXI
A Little Talk with Poldron

HIS eyebrows rose and she saw the look of amazement on his face as he caught sight of her. Recovering himself, he moved a pace or two into the room and bowed with ironical politeness.

"Miss Hardwick, this is an unexpected pleasure!" He beamed upon her, and his voice was smooth and soft, but in his eyes she thought that she saw a light of cruel triumph. "Fortunately, I found time to call upon Mr. Kinoulton before I left, but I had no idea that the pleasure of my visit would be increased by your own presence. It is providential—absolutely providential. An old-fashioned word, Miss Hardwick, not often used in this faithless generation."

Elizabeth backed instinctively as he advanced towards her. For a moment she could not take her eyes off the smiling face. Then her glance went towards the door, and she started forward with a cry.

"Yes, your cousin—your second cousin, I believe, Miss Hardwick? Yet, according to my own views of propriety, even that scarcely justifies your presence here at this time of night... Perhaps later you will be good enough to explain—in case Mr. Kinoulton does not feel equal to it!"

In her horror of the man, it seemed to Elizabeth that there was a threat in his words. She remembered her cousin's cry before the door had opened to admit Poldron, and with a sudden fear she tried to dash past him. With surprising strength he gripped her arm, twisting it to hold her helpless, as he forced her back towards the chair from which she had risen.

"Be seated, please, Miss Hardwick!" he commanded, though in fact she had no option but to obey. "It would appear that my words have agitated you unnecessarily. Your cousin is quite safe—he may, if he is wise, even remain so! We have come for a little talk—just a little talk!"

From the chair Elizabeth stared up at him like a trapped animal. Useless as she knew the attempt to be, she half thought of flinging herself suddenly upon him. As if he read what was in her mind he stepped back a pace or two, and his hand went to his pocket.

"I should really stay where you are, Miss Hardwick," he advised. "Your anxiety, as I say, is unnecessary. Mr. Kinoulton is merely detained in the porch—by persuasion of a kind which I hesitate to attempt upon a lady. You disbelieve me? Well." He shrugged his shoulders, and raising his voice a little, called towards the door. "Right, Strelley, bring him in!"

There was a moment's pause; then the swing doors were pushed open awkwardly to admit Kinoulton. He was not alone. Behind him followed the brutal-faced man named Strelley, whom she recognized as her assailant in the Manor hall, and the small man who had called at the house. Both carried guns, which were actually pressing against Kinoulton's back. Her cousin walked forward meekly, but his eyes were blazing with anger. Then she saw the reason for his awkwardness in opening the door. His wrists were handcuffed together in front of him.

"You see, Miss Hardwick, how unjustly you accused me in your thoughts!" Poldron turned towards her as she half rose. "Your cousin is quite intact—if in a situation which is a little incongruous for a Justice of the Peace.... But I have not met Mr. Kinoulton. Perhaps you would introduce us?"

There was a curious intonation in his words as he turned almost hesitantly to face Kinoulton. Elizabeth saw her cousin glare at him defiantly; then he started. A look of utter incredulity spread over his face.

Suddenly conviction seemed to dawn upon him, and with it came a mad fury which transformed his face. Elizabeth shuddered as she looked at him. Her cousin might not be a murderer, but at that moment he longed to kill the man who faced him.

For a moment he stood motionless, glaring at Poldron. Then his rage seemed to master him. With an inarticulate cry, he flung himself, handcuffed as he was, upon the smiling scoundrel before him.

The unexpectedness of the action took both Strelley and the small man by surprise. Before they could fire, Poldron went down with Kinoulton on top of him, beating wildly at his enemy's face with his handcuffed wrists.

"John! John!" Elizabeth leaped to her feet as she cried, but the small man had jumped forward, pushing her back into the chair. For a moment she struggled uselessly.

"Quiet, lady!" her captor grated, raising the gun in his hand, not to fire, but as if to strike with it. "Quiet, or—!"

It was less the threat than the realization that the fight was already over that made Elizabeth relax helplessly. Only the shock of the attack had flung Poldron off his feet and for half a minute Kinoulton's weight kept him down. But her cousin had no chance, handicapped as he was by his bonds. Poldron had wriggled from beneath him, as Strelley gripped his attacker's throat. Kinoulton gave a gasping, throttled cry, kicking convulsively. Then he lay still.

Poldron rose to his feet, panting and dishevelled, the blood was running from above one eyebrow where the edge of the handcuffs had broken the skin. Eyeing the two on the floor, he paused to mop it with a spotless white handkerchief before he stooped to retrieve his glasses. As he did so, Elizabeth saw the malevolence which blazed in his face. His lips were drawn back into a grin, and his eyes gleamed cruelly. It might have been the face of a fiend. Elizabeth watched in fascinated stillness. She could not move. On the floor Kinoulton lay motionless under Strelley's hands, black in the face from the savage pressure on his throat. Above, Strelley looked down, fierce with the lust to kill.

"Strelley!" Poldron's voice came like a whiplash, but except for the cut on his forehead his face, was as calm as if nothing had happened. "Strelley, that's enough! Don't kill him!"

The command was ignored. At that moment his subordinate had no thought but to choke the life out of the man whom he gripped.

"Strelley!" Poldron spoke again, and as he did so stepped with lightning speed over to where Kinoulton lay.

Almost as he spoke for the second time his arm swung. With a crack his hand caught his henchman on the jaw, literally flinging him back. Poldron jumped away, and though she did not see him draw it, Elizabeth noticed the gun in his hand.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then Strelley sat up stupidly, blinking round him, half dazed. All at once he seemed to understand what had happened. His hand flashed back to his hip. In the act, he saw the muzzle of Poldron's gun pointing at him. Their glances met for a second; then Strelley relaxed. His arm fell to his side, and he rose sullenly to his feet.

Poldron watched him like a cat until he stood upright. Then, as if satisfied, he nodded, and slipped the gun back into his pocket.

"Order, Strelley, is Heaven's first law—obedience is mine!" he murmured gently. "You know that we want Mr. Kinoulton alive—for the present! Carter!" He turned to the man who stood over Elizabeth. "Bring Mr. Kinoulton round. I will speak to Miss Hardwick."

He turned to Elizabeth as the small man obediently moved over to where Kinoulton lay on the floor.

"My apologies, Miss Hardwick!" he smiled. "I trust that you appreciate my forbearance? You will admit that Mr. Kinoulton brought what has happened to him upon himself... Such violence was scarcely to be expected—from a magistrate!"

Elizabeth's eyes could not leave his face. She shrank back a little as he moved towards her.

"And yet, who knows? This regrettable scene may have had a good result. I am a mild man, Miss Hardwick. I find it hard to make people understand that I mean what I say. It may be that you are now convinced?"

But Elizabeth scarcely heard the last sentence or two. A groan from her cousin made her look towards him. Kinoulton was coming round. He moaned a little, and tried to put his hand to his throat.

"Pay attention, Miss Hardwick!" Poldron rasped suddenly. "We are wasting time. You doubtless know what I want. Where is it?"

"I—I don't know what you mean." The colour had come back to her face and she met his glance bravely. "You—you want something—from us?"

"You know perfectly." Poldron's manner had changed. He spoke briefly, and the eagerness in his manner did not escape her. "The mere fact of your presence here at this hour shows that you knew something. I want the papers which were in the box under the flagstone. Where are they? Who has them?"

"The flagstone?" Elizabeth echoed. She was trying desperately to think how much she could tell him. It might be as dangerous to tell the truth as to lie. She was floundering helplessly in the dark. "The one you moved?"

"I—I don't know." Elizabeth hesitated; then plunged into an explanation. Mr. Moreton and I lifted the stone the morning after you broke into the house—"

"There was nothing there—only the mark of the box. We didn't know what it was, but it had gone."

The look on his face baffled her. Unless she was very much mistaken, he was suddenly afraid, but why he should be she could not understand. His gaze seemed to pierce her, as though he was trying to read her thoughts, and then as he raised his hand to adjust his glasses she saw that it trembled a little. When he spoke, his voice had become quietly argumentative, almost as though he was trying to convince himself.

"Miss Hardwick, what you say cannot be true. You may or may not know the contents of the papers. I assure you that they are of such a nature that if anyone but one or two persons had found them, the result must have become public." To her surprise he stopped to wipe his forehead nervously. His self-possession seemed to be deserting him. "Anyone, except one or two persons," he repeated. "Naturally, Mr. Kinoulton would not reveal them. He dare not. You, being engaged to him, might not. Bovey didn't get them. If Moreton or the police—"

He broke off, and his brows creased into a frown. In the light of Kinoulton's recent confession, Elizabeth could understand his reasoning. What puzzled her was the fear in his eyes.

"Your father? I have spoken to him. Besides there is another reason why he can know nothing. Then, Miss Hardwick, who remains but you or your cousin?"

"I know nothing of the papers," Elizabeth answered firmly, though deep in her heart she felt her terror growing. This was a different Poldron, and the one thing that she saw clearly was that he was as desperate as he was ruthless. The very fact that he was afraid would make him the more implacable. "I haven't got them."

"Consider, Miss Hardwick," Poldron went on persuasively. "The destruction of those papers—all of them—is as much in the interests of yourself and those whom you love as in mine. All I require is the certainty of their destruction. You may think that I wish to extract money from Mr. Kinoulton. I am ready to burn them before your eyes. If the police should get them, you do not know, perhaps, what the consequences may be—"

"The police!" Elizabeth started upright as a sudden thought came to her. "But—but they will be here soon! Mr.—Mr. Moreton—"

"Mr. Moreton, at least, is hardly likely to trouble us for the moment." Poldron smiled again, and his composure seemed to be returning to him. "The gentleman whom, distrustfully, the Inspector had put to watch this house is similarly incapacitated. So, unless Colonel Grasmere is gifted with second sight—"

"But—but Sergeant Collins!" Elizabeth burst out. "He was in the house—at the Manor—when the shot was fired—" At the words, her anger suddenly blazed up. "My father—you tried to kill him!" she burst out. "You—"

"On the contrary, Miss Hardwick—I tried not to kill him!" Poldron rejoined calmly. "The intention was to frighten only—and to cast, perhaps, a little doubt upon the good faith of Mr. Kinoulton. It was the merest bad luck that he was not credited with that shot. The police—" He broke off. "You said something of a sergeant—in the Manor?"

"He burst the door in, after the shot. He pursued us—my cousin and myself. He will telephone—"

"Not from the Manor. I took that precaution at least." Poldron frowned thoughtfully. "He pursued you. He will go back to the house. He will see your father—"

"Frightened?" Poldron's eyebrows rose. "In any case, he will be puzzled. He will wait, perhaps; then go for help. Naturally they will go first to the house. It may be an hour or more before they think of coming here. But we must hurry."

"But—my father—" The words escaped Elizabeth involuntarily. She had suddenly thought that it was long past the time when her father should have come to the Abbey. She half started to her feet. "Daddy—I—"

"Your father is in no danger, I assure you, Miss Hardwick." Poldron evidently did not understand the cause of her alarm. "Who is there to hurt him? At the worst, he might be detained by the police—who did not seem entirely to accept our alibi. Mr. Moreton—if he is thinking at all, which I doubt—"

"You—you've killed him!" In the confusion of her mind, she had hardly noticed his previous reference to Moreton. As the realization dawned on her, the colour left her face. "You—you've murdered him?"

"Not at all. Mr. Strelley is an artist in his way. I could have said, a short time ago, that I had never known him kill—unintentionally. But the best of us make mistakes!" He shook his head sadly, and a light dawned on Elizabeth. The idea was only half-formed in her mind when his expression altered. "We waste time!" he said sharply. "Your cousin, I think, is recovered—"

He turned towards where Kinoulton sat weak and shaken in the chair, his eyes burning with hatred as he looked at his captor.

"Mr. Kinoulton," he said suavely. "I have just asked a question of Miss Hardwick regarding the whereabouts of a certain box—the contents of which, you, at any rate, are partially aware. She professes ignorance, and I am disposed to believe her. That leaves you. I am in a hurry. You will appreciate why. The police may be here soon. I ask you once and for all, where is it?"

Kinoulton unexpectedly smiled, a bitter and triumphant smile. He sat up a little.

There was a significance in his pause which did not escape Elizabeth, but the effect upon Poldron amazed her. His gun was in his hand in a moment, pointing straight between Kinoulton's eyes.

"Stop!" He shouted rather than spoke. "Speak that name, and I'll shoot you, if the police were at the door!"

"They very well may be, Mr. Poldron!" he rejoined. "You may put that gun away. For the moment I will respect your natural wishes—or fears. But I repeat, I know no more than Miss Hardwick of the papers which you—or in fact, both of us—are seeking. If I had them, you can scarcely imagine I should have behaved as I have done. And, if I had them, as you must know, the first thing I should have done would be to burn them. You are wasting your time. Let myself and Miss Hardwick go. Escape, and we will do our best to keep the police out of the way. You will be lucky if you get away now. In quarter of an hour—"

"Your anxiety for us is touching," Poldron sneered, but it was plain that he was shaken. "One would hardly have expected such solicitude, after your reception of me a few minutes ago. Really, Mr. Kinoulton, you cannot expect me to—"

"I'll settle with you yet—" Once again Kinoulton seemed to break off on the point of speaking the forbidden name. "It's not you I'm worrying for. It's Miss Hardwick. At least let her go. She knows nothing—"

"And you? If you have not the papers yourself, have you no idea who may have them?" Poldron flashed the question suddenly, and Kinoulton started. Little as she could understand it, Elizabeth could see that it had found the mark, and the fact did not escape Poldron. "Ah, you know that, at least! Then that is what you shall tell me, Mr. Kinoulton. Who?"

Kinoulton eyed him with an expression which was half bewilderment and half anxiety. It was half a minute before he answered.

"I have no knowledge—" he began, unconsciously emphasizing the word. Poldron broke in upon his words.

Poldron stood staring at him. Elizabeth, watching in utter fascination, saw the fear in his face. Then he grinned savagely.

Kinoulton half rose from his chair only to sink back before the muzzle of Poldron's gun.

"See here, Poldron," he objected. "I've been listening, and I heard a few things. If you want to face the cops, I don't. You know what it means—"

"And you know why you obey me!" Poldron snapped. "The police won't be here! We've got to succeed. If you fail me—"

The words died upon his lips. With a muttered curse Strelley swung round with his gun ready. Between fear and hope Elizabeth rose to her feet. In the silence, clearly and distinctly, came the sound of someone knocking.

Only as it died away the group by the fireplace seemed to come to life. Looking across at Kinoulton, Elizabeth read in his eyes her own feelings. It might be her father. It might be the police. In either case they had almost more to fear than they had before. Strelley backed a little towards the windows still holding his gun ready, and his fingers sought the fastenings of the shutters. Carter looked at Poldron appealingly.

In a more legitimate sphere, Poldron's talents might have made him a great man. The knocking had frightened him as badly as anyone, but with a great effort he controlled himself. In the emergency, his mind worked like lightning.

"If it's police—" he began, and silenced Strelley with a gesture. "If it's police, how many? Probably one stray country bobby—to question Mr. Kinoulton and ask after his health!" He even managed to laugh. "We can deal with them—inside here!"

He paused for a second to let the idea sink in before he continued, and his eyes flashed from Strelley to the small man.

"Carter, open the door!" he snapped as the knocking sounded again. "You're a servant—understand? Open! Let them in. Pretend nothing is wrong— You see?"

Strelley made a noise as though he was about to protest, and was silent. The small man looked from one to the other hesitantly. Plainly he was afraid. Then his confidence in his leader won the day.

Without a glance back he crossed the room and the swing doors closed behind him.

CHAPTER XXII
Enter Mr. Hardwick

IN his weakness, the shock of his discovery momentarily unnerved Moreton. Shaken and dizzy, he had to sit on the ground beside the prostrate body of the detective while he tried desperately to gather his failing strength. It was a minute or two before he could even stretch out a hand to search for the wrist and feel the pulse. He felt a wave of relief. It was beating, though feebly. The body was still warm. With a suspicion of what had happened, he felt for and found the head, and the next minute his fingers felt the bruise which he had expected.

It was obvious enough what had happened. The man who had been put on to watch Kinoulton had been stunned, in very much the same way as Strelley had nearly succeeded in doing to him. He felt the pulse again. He was almost confident that the man had merely been knocked out. But in any case he could see nothing to do except what he had originally intended. The body was lying in a comfortable enough position. He himself could do nothing more, and the immediate task before him was to get help.

Short as it had been, the rest had benefited him. He got to his feet with less difficulty than he had expected, and after a moment's hesitation, continued his way towards the Abbey. It was, of course, quite possible that Kinoulton was responsible for knocking the man unconscious, but he did not think so. The job was too workmanlike for an amateur, even apart from the coincidence of the attack upon himself. Poldron and his two friends were more likely, and it looked as if for some reason they had taken the road to the Abbey. He remembered that they had seemed to go off in that direction. What could have taken them there was only a part of the general mystery which he had to solve.

He had reached the second gate leading into the Abbey grounds when even in his bemused state it penetrated his brain that if they had been there, in all probability they were there still. He stopped at the thought, peering into the darkness. He was in no condition to tackle three armed and desperate criminals, and desperate Poldron must be, or he would never have behaved as he seemed to be doing. With his gun ready, he began to advance more circumspectly.

His previous visit when he had followed the unfortunate Bovey back from his unsuccessful raid on the Manor had shown him where one of the house doors was, and he made his way quietly towards it. Certainly the house looked all right. It was in darkness, but that was no more than one would have expected in the early hours of the morning. Then he remembered the other dark house which he had just left, and his hand tightened on the butt of his gun. With a laugh he dismissed the idea as fanciful. If the men were there, they could not have been in the house for very long—certainly not long enough to take complete possession without giving a hint of their presence. Besides Kinoulton, the household at the Abbey must be fairly extensive, and they could hardly all have been overpowered.

Unsuccessfully he groped for the door-bell. This door at least did not seem to be fitted with any such thing. There was not even a knocker. He guessed that it was neither of the main doors of the house, and at the thought almost turned away to look for a more likely means of entrance. Then he remembered that at least Kinoulton's room had been somewhere just above. As a new wave of faintness came over him, he summoned up his strength to beat on the door with his fist.

For what seemed an inconceivably long time there was no reply. He had to cling to the doorpost for support. Evidently no one in the house had heard. He hammered again desperately. Then the door opened. He gasped out his request to the man who stood in the darkness inside.

Even as the world swung round him dizzily, Moreton had a hazy impression that he had heard the voice before.

It was just what Moreton was incapable of doing. The relief of having reached his destination seemed to have robbed him of his last remaining strength. He fell suddenly to the ground. Consciousness never left him for a second, but his legs seemed simply to collapse beneath him. Almost idly, he noticed as he lay there something which struck him as odd. The man who had opened the door had made no attempt to prevent his fall. Even now, instead of lifting him up, he stood looking for a moment before stepping quickly right over him and closing the door.

Moreton was beyond thinking, but he felt a dazed surprise. Then the man opened the inner door and called into the lighted room beyond, and even in his weakness it came to Moreton that the words he used were scarcely those one would expect of a servant announcing a guest.

The single word brought him almost to his senses. He had been beyond seeking an explanation for the other things, but about this there was no doubt. It was Poldron's voice. Under the stimulus of danger he half sat up.

Incapable of resistance, Moreton felt himself seized by the shoulders and drawn, not ungently, through the door. As it closed behind him, he blinked round the room, half stupid from his injury and almost blinded by the light.

It was the sight of Elizabeth's scared face which made him make the necessary effort to get a grip of himself. His eyes took in the situation, and he forced his brain to comprehend it. Elizabeth was a prisoner in Poldron's hands. That fact alone roused him more even than the thought of his own danger. His first thought was that Poldron and Kinoulton must be acting together; then he saw the handcuffs on Kinoulton's wrists, and the position became clearer. Even at that moment it came to him that Strelley was the immediate danger. He had fixed his eyes upon the detective as he entered, and Moreton saw the gun pointed straight at his head. Poldron also seemed to perceive the danger.

It was evidently with extreme unwillingness that Strelley obeyed, but he slowly lowered the gun, glowering at Moreton. Poldron smiled, a little less assuredly than usual.

"Inspector Moreton?" he said. "This is an unexpected pleasure! We had quite thought that you were detained elsewhere."

Moreton did not answer. His eyes, in fact, were fixed upon Elizabeth, who was looking at him with an expression full of compassion and anxiety—and perhaps something else. Moreton told himself that he must be lightheaded to think so, and forced himself to look at Poldron.

"You are alone, Inspector?" Poldron asked, but evidently he read the answer in the detective's face. "Yes. Now, why?"

He seemed to be considering Moreton as if he were a puzzle which had to be solved. Then he spoke sharply.

The blankness in Moreton's face must have answered the question. Poldron laughed and turned to the small man.

"Carter, take Mr. Moreton to a chair—I beg your pardon, Inspector Moreton!" He paused. "Of course, Inspector, it is a matter of some importance to me at the moment where the various members of the police may be. There is work I have to finish, and at once. I have no wish to be hurried—and finish it in a way which would be regrettable to all of us."

In the last words Moreton read Poldron's desperation, and even as Carter was dragging him to the chair, the part that he must play flashed upon him. He had no great respect for the sergeant's judgment, but if he was at large, sooner or later he must get into communication with the police station. Then help would come. But his aim must be to pretend that help was as far away as possible. The weaker he seemed, the less attention they would pay to him. The more remote the prospects of a police visit seemed, the more time Poldron would take in whatever he was trying to do. Bad as he felt, he was well enough to look far worse than he actually was as Poldron eyed him in the chair.

"Strelley, you made a bad shot!" Poldron turned away at last. "Inspector Moreton's arrival hardly alters things, I think. But we had better take precautions. Carter, tie his hands and feet!"

Every second he rested Moreton felt better. So far as his feet were concerned there was nothing for it but to submit. But in the dim past a variety performer had shown him how to hold one's hands so as to be tied with apparent security and yet escape with ease. Moreton had never thought that he would have to use the trick, but at that moment it came back to him. When Carter stood erect, satisfied with his work, Moreton felt fairly certain, that given a minute or two unobserved, his hands would be free. With a burst of hope he realized that they had not even searched him for weapons.

Poldron watched the process of binding him; then turned from his latest captive disdainfully.

"Now, Mr. Kinoulton!" he said. "The man who has the papers? I think that you were going to tell me."

Even to Moreton, though he understood nothing of what had happened, Kinoulton's desperation was apparent. He spoke after an interval, slowly, as though he had difficulty in enunciating the words.

Moreton had expected Poldron to smile contemptuously. Instead, he frowned as though he was considering. It was not at Moreton or Elizabeth that he looked when he finally glanced up, but at his own followers.

"Strelley, you made one mistake—you may have made another," he said abruptly. "There's that man outside. Get him. Bring him here—dead or alive. And—come back! Carter—watch the door, and keep an eye on these two. Mr. Kinoulton, if you would come to the end of the room—"

"No, by God!" he thundered. "You're playing some game! It's not mine! I'll not be fooled—"

It was in a whisper that he delivered whatever arguments he intended to convince his unruly follower, and looking at the man's face, Moreton knew that they were successful. Without a word he turned to the door, and as it closed behind him Carter, with a single scared glance at Poldron, moved over to it.

"Now, Mr. Kinoulton!" Poldron said. "If you will come to the end of the room—and bear in mind that my gun is in my hand and that I do not miss!"

Kinoulton rose with at least an assumption of obedience, but something in his face made Moreton doubt if it was real. His eyes followed them as they went to the end of the room, but his hands were busy. He was trying desperately to cast off his bonds, and his thoughts were on the gun in his pocket.

"Mr.—Inspector Moreton!" Elizabeth's low voice made him look up quickly. "I—I'm sorry. I ought to have trusted you. But if you knew how things were—"

Moreton had glanced at the man at the door before he replied. Carter's keen eyes were upon him, and for a moment he had to desist in his attempt.

"I've some idea," he answered softly. "Don't give up hope. Maybe we'll get out of this!"

Much as his heart leaped at Elizabeth's words, from one point of view he could have prayed that she had not spoken. As long as they talked he felt sure that Carter's eyes would be upon them, and while he watched, Moreton could not do the one thing which might mean their safety.

"I—I'm not sure," Elizabeth faltered. "Poldron—he won't let us go! He can't! He means to kill us—"

"He daren't do that!" Moreton answered stoutly, but in his heart he was wondering whether Poldron dare do anything else. Certainly after this there could be no question of his returning to being, at least theoretically, a law-abiding citizen, unless Moreton, and the other witnesses to what had happened, other than his own men, were silenced for ever. The conference with Kinoulton was what puzzled him. Kinoulton had not the air of a man who was knuckling under to a criminal. He turned to Elizabeth again. "It wasn't your fault," he assured her. "In fact, I've been to blame all along—too cocksure—"

"But—but it wasn't that!" Elizabeth said quickly. "Mr. Moreton, you're not to blame. It was my fault. If you didn't do anything that you should have done—"

She broke off. With a quick glance at the watching Carter by the door, Moreton looked at her, and what he saw in her eyes almost made him forget their desperate position.

"I did, you know!" He managed to smile. "It seems to me, looking back at it, that I've mishandled this case more than anything I've ever done—when I most wanted to succeed."

As he looked at her, the blush which spread over her face made him think that she must be able to read his thoughts. She spoke again, with an effort.

"Mr. Moreton, I think that we're going to die," she said simply. "I can see it in his face.... I'd like you to know that I understand. I was the cause of your mistakes—if you made any. But I was afraid—for my father, and for John—"

"John—I didn't mean what I said about him—in the drawing-room." The words came faintly and her eyes were averted. "And—he really loves me. He wouldn't let me."

Moreton could not answer for a moment. Then he gave another quick glance at Carter.

"Miss Hardwick—Elizabeth!" he said desperately. "I quite understand. It's hardly the time to speak of it, but—" He broke off, and Carter, watching them from the doorway, was suddenly puzzled by his smile. "Elizabeth, I love you! If we ever get out of this, I want you to marry me. And—listen, and don't seem interested— We may get out! My gun's in my pocket. If that man stops looking, I think I can free my hands. It would be a fighting chance... But don't talk. It makes him watch us. You understand?"

She broke off. In the unfinished sentence, Moreton read enough to make him wish that he had the strength of Samson to smash his bonds and Poldron in a blow. Instead, he looked warily towards the end of the room where Kinoulton and Poldron were talking. Whatever had been the substance of the conversation, it seemed to have pleased the latter. He had the feeling that the discussion was almost finished. He looked towards the door. Carter's attention seemed to have wandered from his prisoners. He too was looking up the room towards his leader. With a feverish haste Moreton began to work upon his bonds.

They were loosening. In another minute he would have been free, but it was not to be granted him. He saw Carter look towards the door. It opened on the instant, and his heart sank as he saw Strelley re-enter, dragging the unconscious body of the detective behind him.

Poldron was coming down the room, and in his eyes was a light of triumph. His face bore the old look of hypocritical benevolence. Little as he understood the reason, Moreton's heart sank. If he could only have had a minute longer— Poldron's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You've got him? Good!" He beamed at Strelley, and at the bewildered Carter. "And, I am glad to say, Mr. Kinoulton and I have arrived at an understanding—have reached a modus vivendi!"

Kinoulton's face puzzled Moreton. It was almost as triumphant as Poldron's, and Moreton had the conviction that he had played some desperate game which had succeeded. Poldron turned to Elizabeth.

"The questions which I asked have been answered to my satisfaction," he said. "On a condition—that the lives of all of you are safe. You will understand that, until I have had time to make provision for our escape I can scarcely allow you your liberty. If you would sit down, Mr. Kinoulton—"

Kinoulton seated himself obediently. Moreton looked at Elizabeth, and saw in her face the reflection of his own bewilderment. Only on the face of Strelley he seemed to see comprehension, and the fact increased his fears.

"I'm afraid that I must ask you to submit to being tied, Miss Hardwick!" Poldron continued. "Strelley! See to it! Carter, do the same for Mr. Kinoulton! Mr. Moreton, fortunately, is bound already."

Moreton tried to read the expression on his face. Both he and Kinoulton seemed triumphant. That was the puzzle. He gritted his teeth as Strelley put the ropes round Elizabeth's hands and feet, working, as opportunity offered, at the task of freeing his own bonds. Not content with binding her, Strelley had finished his task with Elizabeth by making her feet fast to the chair-legs.

Poldron had not waited to see his commands carried out. He seemed to be wandering idly round the room, examining the furniture, the books, even the oil-stove which stood in a far corner. Absently he picked up a cushion from the chesterfield, and carrying it in his hands returned towards them. Moreton watched him with a fear which grew with his bewilderment. Precisely because he could not make out Poldron's intention, it frightened him the more. And still his hands were not free.

"Carter—get the car started!" Poldron snapped. "We're coming in five minutes. See that it's ready."

The small man hesitated. It was no comfort to Moreton that of the three criminals he was the only man who might have a spark of decent feeling, and that he was being sent away. And he, alone of the three, seemed as bewildered as Moreton felt.

"Quick!" Poldron snapped, and the flash in his eyes seemed to overawe the little man.

With a last puzzled glance round he turned to go. The door closed behind him. Poldron waited. On Kinoulton's face Moreton thought he saw the beginnings of doubt. So far as he was concerned, it was the cushion which fascinated him. Poldron was fondling it lovingly—a large, fleecy cushion. Then he spoke.

"Strelley—get busy!" he said harshly. "There's plenty of stuff up there—and the stove!"

The expression on Strelley's face alone would have been enough for Moreton, but Poldron's gaze was upon him. He dare not work at his wrists, for fear that the bonds might be tightened. Poldron looked down at the three captives with an expansive smile, and his fingers closed and unclosed upon the cushion.

"Inspector Moreton, at least, will scarcely understand what has happened," he said. "Mr. Kinoulton and I, as I said, have reached an arrangement. It is very simple. Mr. Kinoulton has convinced me that he obtained and destroyed the papers the night before we took the liberty of calling."

Moreton saw Elizabeth start perceptibly, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself from doing the same. Luckily Poldron had not been looking at Elizabeth. His glance had wandered up the room to look at Strelley, who seemed to be gathering together a pile of papers. He flashed a glance of understanding at Kinoulton. He saw what had happened. Knowing as he did that Kinoulton had had no chance of doing anything of the kind, it was clear that the lie had been manufactured for Poldron's benefit. He looked up as Poldron continued.

"So far, that was satisfactory," he said. "But this was the difficulty. Mr. Kinoulton, Miss Hardwick and Inspector Moreton know facts which, if made public, might prove disadvantageous to me—even to the extent of putting me in gaol! For his part, Mr. Kinoulton gave his word of honour not to divulge them—and I accepted it. And you, Miss Hardwick?"

Moreton dare not look at Elizabeth. He believed that he saw what was coming, and yet something inside him said that it could not be so. In any case, how could he possibly give his word? He was a detective....

He heard Elizabeth's faltering assent, and was suddenly aware of Poldron's eyes upon him.

Moreton could not answer. He gave a desperate tug at the ropes on his wrist, but they did not yield.

"A pity!" he said. "Or it would have been a pity—if I had ever intended to carry out the arrangement! Mr. Kinoulton, I'm afraid I deceived you! There is a better way than words of honour which may or may not be kept. Both Strelley and I are desperate. Each of us is already liable to a death sentence. So my solution is this."

He paused. Withdrawing his eyes from the man's face with an effort, Moreton looked up the room towards Strelley. What he saw made him gasp with horror. Strelley was pouring oil from the stove over a pile of crumpled papers. He heard Poldron laugh.

"The Inspector seems already to have grasped something of my plan," he said mockingly. "It is based on the old saying—at least as old as 'Treasure Island'—that dead men do not bite. Suppose yourselves dead—two detectives, two suspects, in a burnt-out room—if not a burnt-out house! What a puzzle for the police, all the more if one of the detectives is the only man with any knowledge of the case. And I, when required am in my lodgings. I have slept through it all—and you, Inspector, are the only man who knows that I have not!"

Kinoulton was writhing in his chair. The iron of the handcuffs was biting into his white wrists.

"You would, of course, be smothered by the fire," Poldron continued. "Motives of humanity, as well as prudence, forbid that we should leave this to chance. Hence this cushion. It has the advantage that I shall be able to remove your bonds before leaving.... I shall begin, I think, with Miss Hardwick—"

With the knowledge that Poldron's eyes were elsewhere, Moreton, almost blinded with rage, was working at his wrists as Poldron advanced. He dare not look at Elizabeth's wide-eyed horror. If the worst came to the worst—

Kinoulton's leap broke in on his thoughts. Bound as he was, he threw himself full at Poldron. From behind them, Strelley's gun cracked. Kinoulton staggered and fell limply. As Poldron stooped over him his eyes opened.

"But I fooled you!" Kinoulton raised himself in a final effort. "I never had the papers—so I never destroyed them. It was—it was—"

Poldron shook him fiercely. There was a smile on Kinoulton's lips as the last sighing words escaped.

Poldron stood up, letting the still body slip to the ground. Rage and incredulity were blended in his face. The sudden set-back in his hour of triumph seemed almost to have stunned him. He peered down into the glazing eyes as though he would read the truth there; then he straightened himself.

"Yes," he said at last, scarcely above a whisper; then, more loudly: "Yes! It was Hardwick!"

All at once he laughed, horribly. Moreton's blood chilled as he listened, for there was madness in the sound. With an effort he appeared to regain control of himself, and as he looked up to meet Strelley's startled eyes he wore the old mask of calm benevolence.

"Yes, it was Hardwick!" he repeated again softly. "And where, I wonder, is Mr. Hardwick?"

"I seem to have come opportunely." Unexpectedly a mild voice answered his question. "You wanted me, Mr. Poldron?"

With his gun raised, Poldron whirled to face the speaker. Elizabeth gave a cry of horror as she looked. Framed in the doorway stood her father, gazing at them in gentle bewilderment.

CHAPTER XXIII
A Telephone Call

GRASMERE had waited more than three hours at the inn in the hope that Moreton would return. He was both anxious and impatient when at last a knock came at the door, but it was his own Superintendent whom a sleepy but excited landlord ushered into the room.

"Heard you were here, sir," the Superintendent began. "And I thought you'd like to hear something I had told me."

"Sit down," Grasmere invited. "I'm waiting for the Inspector. We've had a visit from Mr. Poldron, and he decided to follow him."

Superintendent Weyman did not actually sniff, but even a less acute observer than the Chief Constable might have gathered the fact that he disapproved. He accepted the chair and the cigar which Grasmere offered him. His superior eyed him questioningly.

"No, I don't, sir!" Weyman answered bluntly. "Too much inspiration stuff, and not enough routine. You know, sir, that he's in the Special Branch, and not used to ordinary criminal work."

"I know," he admitted, "but his being on the spot and knowing something about it—naturally I said 'yes' when he asked me. And he's clever."

"I quite agree with you there." There was no hesitation in Weyman's words. "He's right, too, I think, about the beginning of this business being some years back. In fact, what I've found seems to bear on what he said... I've been talking to Hulme."

"Yes, the lawyer," Weyman answered significantly. "Old Mr. Hardwick's lawyer—I mean Kinoulton's grandfather."

"I had a job to get him to talk—professional etiquette and so on. But, as it happens, neither the present Mr. Hardwick nor Kinoulton are his clients, and he saw how serious it was."

Weyman was only human, and he paused dramatically before announcing his discovery.

"Inspector Moreton was asking, you said, for unusual incidents which might affect the Hardwick family," Weyman continued. "Hulme told me this—that old Mr. Hardwick died suddenly. Fell downstairs in the middle of the night. As a matter of fact I remembered that, but I never thought much of it. At the time there didn't seem to be anything suspicious. It was years afterwards, in fact, that even Hulme found out what he told me to-night. Hardwick changed his will the day he died."

"That wasn't very significant, Hulme said," Weyman went on. "Apparently Hardwick was the kind of man who liked making wills. He made one with every mood which took him—sometimes Hulme drew them up, but not always. He didn't draw up this one, but one of the witnesses told Hulme about it some time afterwards. And the witness saw the will, too. It left everything to Mr. Theodore Hardwick."

"Kinoulton actually got the money? Yes, sir. Under a will made about a year before... I asked Hulme if he didn't think that suspicious, and he said he didn't. Knowing Hardwick senior, he thought it just as likely as not that he'd torn it up again five minutes afterwards. Anyway, that will was never produced—and Hardwick fell downstairs."

"Good God!" Weyman's meaning dawned on Grasmere all at once. "You don't mean that he was murdered?"

"It wasn't suspected at the time," Weyman admitted, "but then, no one looked for a murderer very hard. I turned up the inquest. There was only one point, in the medical evidence. The doctor said that he would have expected more bruises from the fall downstairs. I suggest that in fact he didn't fall downstairs—he was thrown over the banisters!"

"By Kinoulton?" Grasmere frowned. "And Kinoulton stole the will? And Shoreham, the gardener's boy, knew something about it, and when he was hanged, Bovey and Poldron, who had somehow got to hear of it, came down to blackmail Kinoulton. Yes, I see... But that scarcely explains why they should try to burgle the Manor."

"I know, sir," Weyman admitted. "At first I thought that perhaps the will hadn't been destroyed, and that Shoreham, who was employed there, might have got hold of it and hidden it. Then I had another idea. Suppose it wasn't Kinoulton, but Hardwick?" Grasmere was on the point of interrupting, but the Superintendent hurried on. "I know what you're going to say, sir—that it was Kinoulton who got the money, and that the lost will was in Hardwick's favour. That's true. But look at it this way. Who has been friendly with Poldron? In fact, whose alibi for the killing of Bovey depends on Poldron? Suppose both Poldron and Bovey knew about this—Shoreham must have told them. Bovey goes to Kinoulton and offers to find the will. Kinoulton consents, because he wants that will destroyed, and daren't risk having it turn up accidentally. Poldron goes to blackmail Hardwick—and maybe aims to get the will which would give him control of the whole situation. He could sell it to the highest bidder."

"But—Hardwick and Kinoulton!" Grasmere said incredulously. "Why, I've known them for years. It's unbelievable."

"But the situation exists," Weyman persisted. "Hardwick and Kinoulton were the only heirs. Both their fathers, old Hardwick's son and son-in-law, had died previously. Then old Hardwick dies. His last will is missing. But suppose Hardwick didn't know that? Suppose Hardwick thought that, at the moment, his grandfather's will was in his favour?"

"You mean that he murdered both his grandfather and Bovey?" Grasmere smiled. "I'll never believe that, Weyman! A milder man than Hardwick doesn't exist—and we're to suppose that he throws one man downstairs, and bashes another's head in? After all, character does count for something."

"If one were ever sure of a character, sir," Weyman rejoined. "But, in fact, I'm not suggesting he did the killing himself. I suggest that Shoreham killed old Hardwick, and that Poldron killed Bovey. That was why he and Hardwick told the same story."

"Poldron, sir. Bovey got it all right. How, I can't say at the moment. He was taking it to Kinoulton, who was waiting for him. Poldron killed him, searched the body, and found the will. He is now bargaining with Hardwick."

"It's a complicated theory," Grasmere objected. "And even so, it doesn't fit—"

He broke off as a knock sounded at the door. It was the landlord who entered, evidently agog with the feeling that he was in the midst of great events.

"Chief Inspector McCulley, and Inspector Burrell would like to see you or Inspector Moreton, sir," he announced.

The door closed behind the landlord, and he saw on Weyman's face something of his own astonishment.

"McCulley!" Grasmere murmured. "And I suppose that Burrell's another C.I.D. man? Now, I wonder—"

"Colonel Grasmere?" The elder of the two men asked. "We've not met, I think, though I knew your predecessor. You'll think it late for a call, but I really came down to see how Moreton was getting... This is Inspector Burrell, of the Finger-prints Department. Moreton sent him a puzzler."

"I've no love for chasing round the country at midnight," Burrell explained. "But those prints were a curiosity. It's not often we're asked to deal with impressions ten years old. And I'm not sure about them. If I could see the actual marks in the cement—"

"There'll be no difficulty about that," Grasmere answered. "I've a sergeant on duty at the house. He'll let us in... As to how Moreton's getting on, I'm just wishing that I knew. He went out to follow a man named Poldron, and hasn't returned. That was about three—no, four hours ago."

"Poldron?" McCulley frowned. "Then I hope he's all right. I hear you've got Strelley, and someone who sounds like Carter down here too? That's partly why I came... And to see how Moreton was getting on. You understand, of course, Colonel, that this isn't quite what he's been used to. As you asked for him, and anyway we were shorthanded—"

"You think something might have happened to him?" Grasmere asked. "I know where Poldron's staying—"

"We can't very well risk spoiling Moreton's game, whatever it is," McCulley answered. "And Moreton's well able to look after himself. I'd like to go with you and Burrell to the Manor and see the ground. Anything new happened? I had a report from Moreton just before seven o'clock."

"The Superintendent's found something—I didn't introduce you. This is Superintendent Weyman. It's interesting, but I don't know where it leads us—"

They were getting into the car when a small group of men hurried forward. Obviously they had been waiting outside.

"Anything for us, Chief Inspector?" one of them inquired. "There's some development?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid," McCulley answered firmly. He had recognized the "gentlemen of the Press," and Grasmere, who had spent an unhappy half-hour answering or avoiding their questions not long before, groaned under his breath. "I couldn't leave town before. Just came down for a look."

"We can say you've been here?" The questioner glanced at Burrell. "There are finger-prints, then?"

"There are none on the weapon, but there is the possibility that finger-prints may provide a clue," McCulley answered. "Yes, you may say that I have been here. No, I've nothing else to tell you. Inspector Moreton is in charge. I'm only here out of curiosity."

Grasmere muttered something uncomplimentary as the car drove off. McCulley laughed.

"I'm used to them," he said. "And, believe me, it's better to treat them gently. They can be very useful... I suppose they'll be 'phoning that off now. By the way, did you give descriptions of Strelley and Carter?"

"Right. They're Poldron's weak spot—or one of his weak spots. And that's what bothers me—why a man like Poldron, who has been bothering us for years, should take risks like this. Of course, he's got a hold of some sort over Strelley and Carter. But when it comes to murder, it's got to be a pretty strong one. If we got them, they might give him away. Now, if you could tell me about it—"

He listened in silence. By the time Grasmere had finished, they had turned into the drive leading to the Manor.

"It's rather theoretical," McCulley commented. "Still, the fact that the will is missing— What's that!"

The car had pulled up with a jerk. In the light of the headlights, Grasmere made out the figure of the man who was running towards them, waving his arms to attract attention. He recognized the sergeant.

"Thank God you've come, sir!" the sergeant burst out. "Someone shot at the window—and they're all missing! The 'phone's been cut... I was running to get help."

"Pull yourself together!" Grasmere snapped impatiently. "Who's missing? Tell me about it—"

"Get in, and tell as we're going!" McCulley suggested. "It'll be a squeeze... Now!"

Once McCulley broke in on the few breathless sentences in which the sergeant told what had happened.

"You tried to break down the door?" he asked. "It never occurred to you that in the five minutes you spent doing that you could have got in at the window?"

"I didn't like to leave the house, sir," he said. "I thought Miss Elizabeth was inside.... Anyway, someone had been in while I was running after her. The front door was unlocked."

"Let's see the study!" McCulley snapped as the car drew up at the door. "Superintendent, would you look round outside? You searched the house, you say, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir. Nothing wrong—except that the bathroom window was open, and the 'phone cut. I tried to get through—"

These facts had been verified and they were examining the study a few minutes later when Weyman called through the window.

"Found the place the shot was fired from, sir," he announced. "One man, I think, standing alone. Ran off through the shrubbery. But there were two others on the lawn—a man and a woman. The man ran after the fellow who shot. And the woman's tracks are under the window. The bed here's a perfect muddle. Seem to be prints of four men, besides the woman."

"Wait, I'll look!" McCulley answered briefly. Jumping wide of the marks which the Superintendent's torch showed on the soft mould, he and Grasmere joined Weyman on the lawn. For a minute or two he bent down, looking attentively, before he spoke. "Two men jumped from the window," he decided; "that would be Hardwick and the sergeant? Here, Sergeant! Yes. One man came and went twice—at different times. And, last of all, a man came and didn't go. That was after the sergeant, so he'll be the explanation of the front door being unlocked. Now, who were they?"

"That last is the same as the man with the woman on the lawn, sir," the Superintendent supplied.

"It's Moreton!" Grasmere exclaimed. "When we were looking at the prints in the shrubbery we verified our own shoe-prints. I noticed those nails. And the man who came and went—you can tell easily enough if you look in the shrubbery—but I'm pretty sure he was Kinoulton."

"Then we'll want a word with him soon," McCulley said grimly. "And the sooner the better... Let's look along here a little."

Only the deep marks of Elizabeth's heels testified to her flight with Kinoulton as they followed the house wall, but at last, almost on the edge of the lawn a soft patch showed the man's shoe again.

Reaching up he managed to join the severed ends of the wires. McCulley nodded approval.

"We'll need that," he approved. "Colonel, we'll go inside a minute, and you can 'phone for more men—all the men you can get. We'll have to look the whole place over—"

"But—Miss Hardwick?" Grasmere suggested hesitantly. "She may be in danger. We must look—"

"We must look for all of them—when we know where to go!" McCulley rejoined. "Let's get this straight. It's the funniest business I ever struck. Hardwick was in the study—I suppose. At some time he has a visitor who seems to be Kinoulton. Kinoulton leaves, and someone, not Kinoulton, fires a shot which misses. By that time, Moreton, with Miss Hardwick, are on the lawn outside—why, Lord knows! Moreton gives chase. Miss Hardwick dashes over to the window. Hardwick jumped out before she gets there—she treads in his prints. Kinoulton comes and takes her away. The sergeant chases them—and wastes Lord knows how much time beating the shrubbery instead of getting word to us. While he's away Moreton comes back, finds the house empty and leaves again. That right?"

"And where's Hardwick—and Kinoulton and Miss Hardwick?" McCulley returned. "And where's the man watching Kinoulton's place—unless he's asleep."

"In fact, from all points of view, the Abbey is our next place of call. You'll have to guide me. We'll walk the last bit to the house. Burrell and the Superintendent can watch things here—"

The sudden shrilling of the repaired telephone broke in on his words. In a second he had snatched the receiver to his ear.

There was a moment's dead silence in the hall. Only the sight of McCulley's expression was enough to tell Grasmere that whatever was being said was important.

"What!" McCulley exclaimed. There was another pause, then he asked again: "Who's that? Who's speaking?"

CHAPTER XXIV
Poldron is Enlightened

FOR a moment Poldron and Strelley stood petrified staring at the new arrival. It was only when Hardwick closed the door behind him and advanced a pace or two into the room that the spell seemed to be broken. Elizabeth shrieked an agonized warning.

The words died on her lips. With a quick movement Strelley had stepped forward to a position between her father and the door. Hardwick did not even glance at him. His eyes were fixed on Poldron with an air of polite inquiry.

More by Hardwick's unnatural calm than by the suddenness of his appearance, Poldron's nerve was shaken. Unreasonable as he knew it to be, he was conscious of a spasm of fear, and in spite of his effort to control it, there was a tremor in his voice as he answered.

"Your—your coming is certainly fortunate, Mr. Hardwick," he replied after a perceptible pause. "I had just put a question to your daughter, and Mr. Kinoulton suggested that you might be able to answer it—"

Momentarily Hardwick's grave glance strayed to the still figure on the floor, but his expression did not change. He looked again at Poldron.

Poldron's eyes were bright with eagerness, and Moreton saw his knuckles whiten in his effort to speak calmly. In the knowledge that the attention of his captors were fixed upon their latest visitor, Moreton himself was struggling desperately with his bonds. In another minute he would be free.

"We thought, Mr. Hardwick, that you might be able to inform us who removed the box of papers which was concealed at the Manor, and where they are now?"

With her eyes wild with terror, Elizabeth started up as her father was on the point of replying.

Poldron whirled upon her with a snarl like a wild beast. As he heard the thud of the blow which flung her back into her chair, Moreton's discretion forsook him. His hands were still bound, but before he knew it he was half on his feet, struggling with desperate awkwardness to reach the pocket which held the gun. With eyes only for Hardwick, Poldron might not have seen him, but from the door Strelley cried warningly.

Even then Poldron scarcely seemed to comprehend. Moreton had almost got the gun; his fingers touched the butt. Then he saw Strelley's hand go up. Instinctively he dodged at the sight of the flash. A searing pain shot through his shoulder as though a hot iron had pierced him and he was flung to the ground.

The shot roused Poldron. In a bound he was at Moreton's side and had snatched the gun from his grasp. As the detective sank back with a groan, half of pain and half of despair, he sneered down at him.

"Poldron, for God's sake!" The interruption came from Strelley, and his voice was urgent. "We'll have to skip! The police— Someone would hear the shot—"

"Strelley!" Poldron snapped imperatively; then his old manner of mocking benevolence seemed to return to him. "There is nothing to be afraid of, I can assure you. With the shutters closed, the shot would never be heard outside. I need a few minutes with Mr. Hardwick; then, when we have finished what we have got to do here, by all means let us skip!"

But the shooting seemed to have unnerved Strelley. In his fear of capture, he had forgotten his dread of his leader. There was a desperate entreaty in his voice as he spoke.

With the door half open, Strelley turned at the word which came like a pistol shot. There was a protest on his lips, but it died at the sight of the gun in Poldron's hand which covered him unwaveringly. For a moment he stood staring; then his own arm moved up. In the same instant Poldron fired. With a queer, choking cry Strelley collapsed on his face, twitched once or twice spasmodically and lay still.

Gun in hand, Poldron eyed him for a moment, and as he saw the savage grin on the man's face, Moreton shuddered. They were at the mercy of a man who was utterly ruthless, to whom killing was nothing. He cast a quick glance at Elizabeth. She had fallen forward over the arm of the chair, and the sight of her white face came almost as a relief to him. At least she would not be aware of what was to happen. Then he realized that Poldron was speaking to him.

"A necessary part of my scheme which has been a little precipitated, Inspector!" he explained suavely. "You will appreciate its excellence! When they discover your bodies, Mr. Strelley will have been shot with your gun; you with his! I shall have returned to my lodgings and Carter will have vanished..."

His voice trailed away, as though he had forgotten what he was saying. With a sudden movement he whirled to face Hardwick.

To Moreton's dumbfounded amazement, Hardwick still stood in exactly the same place. Except to blink at the wind of the bullet as it passed him, he had not stirred. He blinked again at the violence of Poldron's questions.

"The papers? Ah, yes, Mr. Poldron!" he rejoined coolly. "Mr. Kinoulton was right! I can tell you who took them!"

Hardwick made no haste to answer. Meeting the blazing eyes of the man who held him, he seemed even to pause deliberately before he spoke.

"What—what have you done with them?" Poldron released his grip, and his hand dropped to his side. It seemed as if Hardwick's mild politeness had made him realize his own frenzy. He made a desperate attempt to speak in his normal manner. "Ah, you took them, some years ago?" he echoed. "Might I ask—"

"I can understand your doubts, Mr. Poldron!" he answered. "Moving in the circles which no doubt your mode of life compels you to do, you will naturally be suspicious of the motives which actuated me. If I might be permitted to explain—"

Poldron half raised his hand as if he would fell him to the ground. Then with a superhuman effort he forced himself to smile. Something told him that no threats which he could make would induce Hardwick to speak. With a kind of despair it came to him that he had to humour a madman.

"If you would be so good!" he managed to say in something like an ordinary voice. "But, Mr. Hardwick, be brief. Time presses!"

Hardwick's brows contracted a little in the anxious frown of a man who wishes to make himself perfectly clear.

"As you know, Mr. Poldron, I hold strong views on capital punishment," he began. "Many murderers, I contend, who are at present executed, might, under treatment, become useful citizens. Only when reform is clearly impossible, it is perhaps legitimate for the community to use the death penalty as a means of removing an undesirable element—as one might pull up weeds in a garden—"

The veins on Poldron's forehead stood out in his struggle for self-control. Fascinated as he was by the two men, Moreton could only spare occasional glances. His hands were free. Poldron was half turned towards him, but he was looking at Hardwick. With infinite care he groped for the penknife in his pocket. The killing of Strelley had lessened the odds against him. If he could free his legs, he might be able to make a sudden spring and take his enemy by surprise; but every movement was an agony, and more than Poldron's gun he feared his own weakness. Hardwick's voice murmured on soothingly, as though he had been delivering a lecture. With the knife halfway through the cord, Moreton's attention was suddenly caught by what he was saying.

"The papers which I found," he was saying, "seemed to me to offer the chance of an experiment in my theory. They seemed to provide evidence against three men. Two of them, Jim Shoreham and my cousin, were known to me. The third was named Culman. He was unknown to me, and I had no means of testing the value of the evidence.... It is only in the last day, in fact, Mr. Poldron, that I have wondered whether that might not once have been your own name!"

It was the effect of the words upon Poldron which brought a sudden blinding illumination to Moreton. This was the reason for the risks which he had taken; for the fact that he was prepared to stop at nothing. All at once his face had gone as white as a sheet of paper; there was abject fear in his eyes for a single instant. Then a look of fury succeeded it.

"If I destroyed the papers," Hardwick continued, "I should see, I thought, what these men did with their lives. I was tempted, and finally, I succumbed. I withheld them from the police. To this day they know nothing of what I found..."

The colour had flooded back into Poldron's face. Almost in a moment he seemed to be himself again. With his free hand he wiped the sweat from his face. When he spoke, it was with all his former suavity.

"Thank you, Mr. Hardwick, thank you!" he beamed. "That is most satisfactory. You have lifted a weight from my mind. If you will be good enough to sit down—"

Hardwick quietly accepted the invitation. As he seated himself in the chair facing Moreton, his expression was one of no more than mild interest. His blue eyes blinked at Poldron uncomprehendingly. Moreton stifled a groan as the realization came to him that he could expect no help from that quarter. The lives of all of them depended on himself alone, and he had wasted precious seconds listening when he should have severed the rope. Now, Poldron was only a couple of yards away, facing in his direction, and shooting occasional glances at where he lay as he proceeded to tie Hardwick to the chair. Moreton dared not move.

"You will pardon me if I am compelled to take this step, Mr. Hardwick!" Poldron was saying with mocking geniality. "You will understand that, after what you have told me—and, incidentally, what you have told Inspector Moreton who, I believe, is still sufficiently alive to hear us—that I must take precautions. Binding you is the first. Setting fire to this room is the second. I had, indeed, intended to make things easier for you before leaving, but I am in a hurry."

The savage gleam in his eyes belied the tone in which he spoke. He finished tying Hardwick, and standing back surveyed the group with an air of satisfaction. Moreton had a deadly fear that the fact that he had partially freed himself would be seen, but Poldron turned abruptly away, not to the door, but up the room towards where Strelley had made his preparations for the fire.

Moreton's moment had come. Cursing the bluntness of his knife, he sawed desperately at the cords. The thought of Elizabeth filled him with a furious resolution, and he was conscious of a murderous desire to get his hands upon his enemy. As a whiff of smoke coming to his nostrils showed that Poldron had already lit the fire, his bonds slackened. He was free. Then he heard Poldron's quick steps returning.

He was thinking desperately. He had to be as close as possible if he were to have any hope of success, or Poldron would fire before he could come to grips. Even as a thicker cloud of smoke rolled down the room, he realized that he must bide his time. Poldron had come into his limited range of vision, and in his hand he carried the light oil-stove of which he had previously spoken to Strelley. Moreton heard him chuckle strangely, and the sound made him shiver. It was a maniac he had to tackle, with the strength of a maniac, and he himself was wounded.

"My late colleague, Mr. Strelley," Poldron said as he stopped opposite the fireplace, "undoubtedly lacked the finer powers of imagination. You will observe that his preparations for an effective destruction of the room were made completely at the far end. To you, Mr. Hardwick, it will no doubt be clear that the first essential is to prevent access to the room or egress! It is fortunate that I have the means of remedying his mistake—"

"One moment!" Hardwick's voice came firmly, but with a new note in it, which certainly was not fear. "Do I understand that you mean to ensure your own safety by murdering us?"

Poldron raised his eyebrows and smiled. Moreton gathered himself for his attempt, but his heart sank at the thought that the chair on which he had been sitting stood between them. He could never get round it in time; for if one hand carried the stove, the other still held the gun.

"Murder is hard word, Mr. Hardwick!" he said. "Let me say rather, that I am removing certain undesirable members from the community! Now that the papers are destroyed—"

Hardwick sat a little more erect in his chair, and in his face there was something of the look Moreton had seen on the night of the burglary. Sharply and incisively his words cut in upon Poldron's taunting.

"Only, Mr. Poldron," he said quietly, "the papers were not destroyed. I kept them."

Poldron recoiled as if he had been struck. He gave an inarticulate cry. There was a crash as the stove fell from his hands, but Moreton scarcely noticed it. The next second Poldron had leaped across to where Hardwick sat, and there was murder in his face.

"At the moment," Hardwick answered in a level voice, "they are in the box at the village post office—addressed to the Chief Constable. You, Mr. Poldron, are a case for removal, not reform. The police—"

Hardwick got no further. For an instant rage and fear had held Poldron motionless. Then with a roar he flung himself upon the helpless man. His hands gripped his throat. Gathering every ounce of his strength, Moreton raised himself and sprang.

Even as he did so, he realized his own hopeless weakness. The leap which should have brought him on top of his adversary was barely enough to reach him; his hands missed their grip. He caught an arm and clung to it desperately as Poldron whirled to face him. In the next instant he almost lost his hold as Poldron's fist striking out wildly caught his wounded shoulder. With the stab of pain the room seemed to swim round him. Somehow he staggered forward and clinched.

Poldron's face was grinning triumphantly into his own only a few inches away, and as they staggered to and fro Moreton knew with a sinking heart that the triumph was justified. Wounded as he was, still weak from the blow on his head, the odds were all with his opponent. In a minute he must be overpowered. The little strength he had was ebbing quickly. Through the thickening smoke-wreaths he caught a glimpse of the white face of Elizabeth and the sight brought him an unsuspected remnant of energy. His grip tightened for an instant, as he made as if to thrust Poldron back towards the fireplace. He felt Poldron's grasp relax. With a sudden heave he broke the hold of his enemy's hands. His fist shot out.

Taken by surprise, Poldron made no attempt to parry. Feeble as it was, the blow found its mark, the point of the chin at which Moreton had aimed. It was scarcely more than a love-tap, but it sufficed. Poldron's head went back and he recoiled a pace or two. His heel caught against the dead body of Kinoulton. With a heavy thud he fell backwards.

Swaying as he stood, Moreton gazed down at him for a moment in sheer incredulity. He had been sure that he was beaten, and even as he had delivered the punch, knew its ineffectiveness. But Poldron lay still over the limp form of the man whose death he had caused.

By a mighty effort Moreton pulled himself together. With a rush of fear he was conscious of a new danger. Panting from his exertions, he coughed violently in the thickening clouds of smoke. He could barely see across the room. Then an impression of flickering light behind him made him turn. Between the fireplace and the doorway was a spreading pool of flame. In the instant, Poldron was forgotten.

There was no answer or movement from the bound man in the chair. Moreton realized that Poldron's hands had been on his throat long enough to make him insensible. Behind, the black clouds were beginning to glow redly as the fire gained ground; in front, the oil from the overturned stove was every instant cutting off their only way of escape. He could scarcely see through his smarting eyes. With an anguished cry he groped his way towards the other chair.

She did not reply. He shook her desperately, striving to rouse her, but her form remained limp and motionless under his hands. The smoke was overcoming him. In a moment he too would be senseless. With a despairing effort he started to half-drag, half-carry her towards the door. On the verge of the flaming pool he hesitated. The way was barred completely. With a last flicker of strength he raised her in his arms and staggered a pace or two forward. The door gave before him. With a deep gasp he drew in the cool air of the night.

Suddenly he was aware of hurrying feet. A torch flamed in his face and he heard a voice which he seemed to know.

Someone gripped his arm, holding him up, and he felt the dead weight of the unconscious girl taken from him. He managed to gasp an explanation.

There was a wave of blackness which seemed to overwhelm him and he fell fainting at Grasmere's feet.

CHAPTER XXV
McCulley Gives Advice

MORE than an hour later Moreton came to himself lying on the couch in a room which he did not know. For a minute or two he lay there conscious of little more than the fact that he was a mass of aches and pains: then as he remembered what had happened he sat up with a start. As he did so McCulley rose from the table where he had been writing and came towards him. Moreton recognized the Chief Inspector with an exclamation of bewilderment.

McCulley pushed him gently back as he tried to rise and stood regarding him sardonically.

"Thought you might need a little fatherly protection," he answered. "If appearances are any guide, you did. For one night's work you've managed to get knocked about pretty thoroughly. The shoulder's nothing, though. Are you burnt much?"

Moreton realized for the first time that his wound had been bandaged. His hands smarted a little where the flames had caught them, but otherwise he seemed to have escaped. Then the thought of Elizabeth came to him.

"Eliz—" he blurted out and broke off as he caught the Chief Inspector's quizzical eye. "Miss Hardwick?" he amended. "What happened?"

"Eliz—Miss Hardwick is in excellent health," McCulley smiled grimly. "So, incidentally, are Hardwick and the detective whom you failed to add to your bag as heroic rescuer. So, even is Poldron... It's just as well. For a case which has been in the hands of the C.I.D. from the beginning there are rather a lot of corpses."

Moreton flushed at the reproof which he felt the words implied. He had the feeling that he had failed miserably as he thought of the death of Kinoulton and the fact that only the lucky arrival of his superior had saved the others. McCulley read his thoughts.

"I'm not blaming you," he said soothingly. "Don't work yourself into a fever or anything. You couldn't possibly foresee what a violent lot of thugs you had to deal with, and I rather gather that after you left Grasmere, things happened quickly?"

"Not at first." Moreton felt a little reassured by his superior's tone. "I started by waiting three hours outside Poldron's—"

"Good!" McCulley exclaimed in genuine pleasure. "I'm glad there was one little bit of nice, dull police work in this thrilling drama of love and crime." His eyes dwelt on Moreton's face innocently, and Moreton felt himself colouring again. "I gather you followed Poldron and lost him. What happened then?"

"I guessed something like that," he said. "The only thing I wasn't clear about was at what point you got the bump on the head. Let's hope it's knocked sense into you."

"Your future father-in-law is both the villain and the hero of that piece.... By the way, I haven't congratulated you."

This time there was no doubt about Moreton's blushes. McCulley looked at his scarlet face with a simple enjoyment.

"A misunderstanding?" he asked. "From what Hardwick said Miss Hardwick said... You'd better be careful. Breach of promise is a damaging sort of business for a promising young officer!"

"Only that his belated repentance last night made him ring us up just in time to arrive at the psychological moment. We collected Carter, by the way. Your mind's still wandering, or you'd have asked about him... But he's the villain of the piece, because if he were not an infernal old idiot, with more lunatic theories than any man out of Colney, the whole thing would never have happened. He's had that box for six years kept in a drawer with his newspaper cuttings instead of handing it over to the police. If he had done, Shoreham or Kinoulton or Poldron, alias Culman, or vice versa, would have been duly hanged, and you'd be vamping some girl on the front at St. Leonards."

"A statement signed by Kinoulton and Shoreham—who, as you properly thought, was Remshaw. Burrell managed to make out those prints. I gather he wants to chip out the block and take it back as a souvenir. A statement admitting a burglarious entry into Grandfather Hardwick's house to read his will and an account of what happened there. Also, I gather, the will old Hardwick had just made—cutting out Kinoulton and leaving all his worldly goods to Hardwick. That was what bothered Poldron."

"Poldron, or Culman, wasn't ass enough to trust the burglary to Kinoulton and Shoreham. He went along to see the thing through himself, and finding Hardwick's latest will inconvenient, he'd decided to remove it when old Hardwick found him. I haven't seen the thing myself—another stroke of genius on the part of your father-in—sorry! of Mr. Hardwick. He's posted it, and it'll arrive with the tea to-morrow morning."

"But the great light has not yet dawned. Listen and I'll tell you in words of one or two syllables. Kinoulton wanted cash and got it from Culman. Culman wanted a hold on Kinoulton, who looked like having money one day. He fixed the burglary on the pretext of looking at old Hardwick's will—not knowing that it had been changed that day. When he found out, it looks as though he thought it might be a good idea to remove the will and take care that it wasn't remade. Anyhow, he seems to have killed old Hardwick. Then Kinoulton and Shoreham, both scared, seem to have drawn up idiotic documents each giving the other a hold over him. But Shoreham went back to see that all was clear—or what he could pinch quietly. And he found Poldron with the second will, and wrote a little account of that too. Poldron might have laughed that off, but Shoreham made him give up the will, and Poldron's inky finger-prints were on it. In the face of the account by Shoreham, he'd have had a job to explain it away."

"Perhaps not. From what you said, I'm inclined to wonder if the threat of it hanging over him hadn't made it rather an obsession. Anyway, Poldron thought it worth risking everything for. And, you see, it would have given him a hold on Kinoulton. While Shoreham lived, he dare do nothing. When he was hanged he set out to get the papers. Bovey was doing the same, but he tried to work for Kinoulton. Which of them killed Bovey remains to be seen—"

Moreton thought of the remark which Poldron had made about even the best making mistakes.

"Almost certainly it was Strelley. And the reason that he'd got the piece of railing with him was that he wanted something to lift the stone and wasn't sure if the pick-axe would be there."

McCulley nodded. "Well, after the murder, more than ever Hardwick's muddle-headedness had made him muddle things up. He still half suspected Kinoulton of the murder, not knowing who Culman was, or the exact meaning of Shoreham's rather veiled statement. Also he'd seen Kinoulton, and thought that Kinoulton had killed Bovey. Like a fool, he seems to have thought it would be possible to hush the whole thing up. He had gone to the body to see if Bovey had found anything. He hadn't—and incidentally, it was the sight of Bovey, not of Poldron, which took him through the window. He met Poldron afterwards. Poldron knew that one of his two men must be responsible. Between them they fixed up a nice little story designed to confuse the police. Only there had been no time to see Kinoulton. The tales didn't agree. Until Kinoulton more or less confessed to-night, Hardwick seems to have thought that Poldron's motive was blackmail. Then he tumbled to it, came to the conclusion that Poldron was a case beyond reform, and packed up the documents ready for posting. Poldron fired the shot, and Hardwick seems to have thought it desirable to get rid of the papers, so he slipped out and duly posted them. Miss Hardwick had bolted with her cousin, and it gave the sergeant a few bad moments."

"And me," Moreton admitted. "I thought that there was a body behind every locked door!"

"Hardwick then proceeded to keep his appointment with Kinoulton. He got there just in time to see Poldron and his two assistants nobbling him, and seems to have done what, for him, was some comparatively rapid thinking. Finally he knocked up Kinoulton's butler and tried to 'phone. The wires had been cut there, so the butler ran off post-haste to telephone, and Hardwick went to delay things a little. He evidently guessed what was happening, and whatever one may think about his mental processes, he's got nerve."

"He certainly has!" Moreton found himself filled with a great wonder at Hardwick's action. "I could never have done it myself. He was playing for time, and he never turned a hair all through. Don't wonder Poldron thought he was mad. The credit for the whole show really belongs to him."

"Not quite. Miss Hardwick wasn't very clear about what happened afterwards—but somehow Strelley was shot and Poldron knocked out. That was what really saved everyone. I suppose you don't know a thing about that."

"I knocked out Poldron—by sheer luck," Moreton admitted. "Poldron shot Strelley."

"Then he can hang for that, instead of that old business of Hardwick's grandfather. I'm not sure we could pin that down—though I rather think we could. It's a pity that Kinoulton's dead."

"Yes, it is a pity," Moreton agreed soberly. Partly he was thinking of Elizabeth; partly of the pleasant, grave man who had wished to enjoy his days there when Moreton first arrived. He was silent for a moment.

"Funny thing that Poldron never suspected Hardwick of having the papers?" he suggested.

"The less cannot comprehend the greater," he said. "Because Poldron would have seen all theories to blazes and rushed to get probate of that will, he couldn't think that Hardwick's theories might be far more important to him than a few thousand a year. Hardwick never seems to have given a thought to the money which was rightfully his. He was just interested in his experiment. But it's a sad blow to him that Shoreham died on the scaffold after all!"

"Then, under that will, Hardwick has the entire fortune?" Moreton frowned as he put the question.

"Yes. He would have had it in any case. Kinoulton left him the money as life-trustee for Elizabeth."

Moreton did not answer. He was thinking of the comparative difference in social status between the heiress of a considerable fortune and an ordinary police inspector, and his thoughts brought him no comfort. With a pang he remembered the few breathless words which he had spoken when their death had seemed almost certain. He looked up to find McCulley's eye upon him. There was an ironical smile about the Chief Inspector's mouth.

"Moreton, my lad, don't be an ass!" he said, and his smile had suddenly become friendly. "I know perfectly well what you're thinking. It's in your mind to do the hero stuff again and say to that girl: 'Begone! You are rich and I am poor. I can never marry you until I win the Irish Sweepstake!' Now, wasn't it?"

Moreton looked up angrily for a moment; then McCulley's expression conquered him. He laughed.

"It does!" McCulley agreed. "I'd a damn sight sooner be married on five thousand a year than five hundred! You're thinking about being quixotic and foolish. You'll regret it all your life, probably not all your life, but until you meet the next girl! but she very well may. She's fond of you and said as much, I gather—didn't she?"

"I—I don't know," Moreton hesitated. His superior officer had frequently puzzled him, but this was a new side of his nature. "No, I mean, she didn't exactly—"

"Marry the lass in Heaven's name and be done with it!" McCulley snapped impatiently. "You were going to before—don't argue! It's been quick work, I admit, but there—" He shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes it happens in five minutes, sometimes in fifty years! There's no accounting for people who fall in love—"

"I suppose you speak from experience?" Moreton laughed; for the Chief Inspector was known as a particularly hardened bachelor. "Your own case—?"

"My own case," McCulley repeated softly. "Yes, from experience." He was suddenly silent; then he smiled his old ironical smile. "There's two sayings you might as well bear in mind. One's Caleb Trotter's in Troytown—'You'm in now, and you may as well go dru',' and the other's the Northern farmer: 'Don't ee marry for money, lad, but go where money be.'"

He rose sharply to his feet, as if satisfied with the line on which he was making his exit. Only at the door he paused.

"You look like a scallywag who's been on an all-night drunk," he criticized, "but I'll send her in. Look as pleasant as you can! Poor girl!"

The door had closed behind him before Moreton had thought of a retort. It would have amused the Chief Inspector that his first action was to stagger to his feet to look in the mirror which hung above the fireplace. What he saw was not reassuring. Partly at his dishevelled reflection, and partly at his own thoughts, he frowned. He was still scowling fiercely as Elizabeth entered. She flew across the room to him.

"You—you're better?" she faltered; then without knowing why, at the sight of Moreton's uncompromising frown, she blushed. "Mr. McCulley told me you were conscious," she added hurriedly. "I came to thank you—"

"I didn't do anything," Moreton denied hastily. "Your father saved us. He was wonderful."

"He was wonderful—but it was you who saved him." Elizabeth smiled, but as no answering smile came on Moreton's face she drew back. "You're—you're not well," she suggested. "You'd rather be left alone?"

From the moment Elizabeth entered, Moreton's resolution had been weakening fast. Abruptly he decided that if he did not speak at once he never would, but he seemed to have forgotten all he intended to say.

"Elizabeth—Miss Hardwick," he began. "About to-night— Of course, I know that it was impossible, as things have turned out. I thought I'd explain—"

Elizabeth stood looking at him in silence as the words died on his lips, and there was a pathetic little droop at the corners of her mouth which made him call himself a variety of names of which brute was the most complimentary. Then her eyes dropped.

"But I do!" Moreton burst out desperately. "I want it more than anything else in the world. But McCulley told me—about the will, and so on. You can see it's hopeless—"

He broke off again, and looked away miserably. Elizabeth took a step towards him. All at once she smiled.

"And Inspector McCulley told me," she said a little hesitantly, "that if you said anything of the sort, I was to take the nearest blunt instrument and hit you on the head with it. He said maybe Strelley hadn't hit hard enough—"

Moreton wavered between laughter and annoyance; then the laughter won. But still he hesitated. For a moment longer he managed to hold out.

"McCulley's a romantic, match-making old imbecile," he broke out. "Elizabeth—I only want to do what is right—"

"And, when you've proposed to a girl, what do you think that is?" Elizabeth asked innocently.

THE END

MAX DALMAN

THREE STRANGERS

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 Three Strangers from Town

CHAPTER II An Offer and a Threat

CHAPTER III Mr. Buckfast is Startled

CHAPTER IV A Meeting of Rivals

CHAPTER V Kinoulton Speaks Out

CHAPTER VI A Night Alarm

CHAPTER VII Moreton Takes a Scalp

CHAPTER VIII The Man with the Scar

CHAPTER IX A Step Forward

CHAPTER X Poldron Calls Again

CHAPTER XI A Tragic Discovery

CHAPTER XII Kinoulton Defends Himself

CHAPTER XIII Complications

CHAPTER XIV An Identification

CHAPTER XV An Attack and a Rescue

CHAPTER XVI Elizabeth Apologizes

CHAPTER XVII The Shot from the Shrubbery

CHAPTER XVIII A Chase in the Dark

CHAPTER XIX A Flight and a Meeting

CHAPTER XX Kinoulton Explains

CHAPTER XXI A Little Talk with Poldron

CHAPTER XXII Enter Mr. Hardwick

CHAPTER XXIII A Telephone Call

CHAPTER XXIV Poldron is Enlightened

CHAPTER XXV McCulley Gives Advice