The Secretary and the Sister
1
They had walked for perhaps two hundred yards before the elder man
broke the silence.
“I hope Lucia will be all right,” he said. “Probably it was the heat.
It’s a scorcher to-day.”
Anthony nodded. He was in no mood for talk.
“Dora was telling me,” continued Sir Arthur, “that Lucia had been
feeling queer since last night. They hardly saw her after dinner. She
vanished to her room and locked herself in. But apparently she’d been
all right this morning until lunch-time.”
Anthony began to take notice. Here was more confirmation—though it was
hardly needed.
They were drawing near the bridge now. Another silence fell. Again it
was Sir Arthur who broke it.
“You’re very silent, my boy,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve got something
to think about, though. Something definite, I mean.” His tone changed.
“God! What I would give to get my hands on the—the animal that killed
John! I shan’t sleep till he’s caught. It’s torture he needs!
Torture!” The kindly face was distorted.
Anthony looked at him curiously. “The great difficulty so far,” he
said, “is failure to find any indication of motive. I mean, you can’t
do anything in a complicated case unless you can do some work from
that end. A motiveless murder’s like a child without a father—damn’
hard to bring home to any one. Suppose I suddenly felt that life
wouldn’t be worth living any longer unless I stabbed a fat man in the
stomach; and I accordingly went to Wanstead and assuaged that craving
on the darkest part of the Flats, and after that took the first train
home and went to bed. They’d never find me out. The fat man and I
would have no connection in the minds of the police. No, motive’s the
key, and so far it’s hidden. Whether the lock can be picked remains to
discover.”
Sir Arthur smiled. “You’re a curious feller, Gethryn. You amuse while
you expound.” He grew grave again. “I quite see what you mean: it’s
difficult, very difficult. And I can’t imagine any one having a grudge
against John.”
Anthony went on: “Another thing; the messiness of the business
indicates madness on the part of the murderer. With homicidal mania
there might be no motive other than to kill. Myself, I don’t think the
murderer was as mad as all that. Look at the care he took, for all his
untidiness. No, the murderer was no more mad than the rest of the
affair. It’s all mad if you look at it—in a way. Mad as a Hatter on
the first of April. And so am I, by God!” His voice trailed off into
silence.
They had crossed the bridge now. Sir Arthur, instead of turning
directly to his right to return to Abbotshall by the riverside path,
chose the way which led to the village. Anthony drifted along beside
him in unheeding silence. He was thinking.
Yes, “mad” had been the right word to use. There didn’t seem to be any
common sense about the thing. Even She was mad! Why swim to
Abbotshall? The saving in time, he calculated, could have only been a
matter of ten minutes or so. And she couldn’t—well, she must have been
in hell’s own hurry. But the sandals indicated a bathing-dress, and
surely the time taken to change into that might have been spent in
covering the distance on dry land. And what had she been there for,
outside that window of the study? She—surely She had nothing to do
with that messy crime—must be interrogated. Oh, yes! His heart beat
faster at the thought of seeing her again.
He rebuked himself for thus early and immorally losing interest in his
task, and returned to consciousness of his surroundings. He found
himself in Marling High Street.
Sir Arthur disappeared, suddenly, into a low-browed little shop, whose
owner seemed, from his wares, to be an incongruous combination of
grocer, tobacconist, draper and news-agent. Anthony stood looking
about him. The narrow street, which should have been drowsing away
that blazing August afternoon, carried an air of tension. Clumps of
people stood about on its cobbles. Women leaned from the windows of
its quaint houses. The shop outside which he waited, and two others
across the road, flaunted shrieking news placards.
“’Orrible Murder of a Cabinet Minister!” Anthony quoted with a wry
face. “Poor devil, poor devil. He’s made more stir by dying than he
ever did in his life.”
Sir Arthur emerged, a packet of tobacco in one hand, a sheaf of
newspapers in the other. With fleeting amusement Anthony noticed the
red and black cover of an _Owl_ “special.” They walked on.
The elder man glanced down at the papers in his hand. “It’s a queer
thing, Gethryn,” he said, “but I somehow can’t keep away from the
sordid side of this awful, terrible tragedy. Up at the house I keep
feeling that I must get into that study—that room of all places! And I
came this way really to buy newspapers, though I cheated myself into
thinking it was tobacco I wanted. And I can’t help nosing about while
the detectives are working. I expect I shall bother you.” His voice
was lowered. “Gethryn, do you think you’ll succeed? He was my best
friend—I——my nerves are on edge, I’m afraid. I——”
“Great strain.” Anthony was laconic. Conversation did not appeal to
him.
He tried to map out a course of action, and decided on one thing only.
He must see and talk with the Lady of the Sandal again. For the rest,
he did not know. He must wait.
They walked on to the house in silence. At the front door was a car.
Boyd was climbing into it. He paused at the sight of Anthony. Sir
Arthur passed into the house.
Boyd was excited, respectably excited. “Where’ve you been, sir? You’ve
missed all the fun.”
“Really?” Anthony was sceptical.
“Yes. I don’t mind telling you, sir, that the case is over, so to
speak.”
“Is it now?”
“It is. You were quite right, sir. It was some one belonging to the
house. I can’t tell you more now. I’m off back to town. I’ll see you
later, sir.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. Things were going too fast. Had Boyd
found out anything about Her?
“Shalt not leave me, Boyd.” He raised a protesting hand. “‘The time
has come, the Walrus said——’ You’re too mysterious. Be lucid, Boyd, be
doosid lucid.”
The detective glanced at his watch with anxiety. He seemed torn
between the call of duty and desire to be frank with the man who had
helped him.
“I’ll have to be very short, then, sir,” he said, pushing the watch
back into his pocket. “Ought to have started ten minutes ago. This is
very unofficial on my part. I’m afraid I must ask you——”
“Don’t be superfluous, Boyd.”
“Very well, sir. After I left you in the garden this morning, I asked
them all—the household—some more questions, and elicited the fact that
one of what you called the ‘cast-iron’ alibis was a dud, so to speak.
It was like this, sir: one of the maids had told me she’d seen Mr.
Deacon—that’s the deceased’s secretary—go to his room just after ten.
That coincided with what he told me himself, and also with what Sir
Arthur Digby-Coates said. Now, this girl spent the time from ten until
about a minute before the murder was discovered working—arranging
things and what not, I take it—in the linen-room. Apparently it took
her so long because she’d been behindhand, so to speak, and was doing
two evenings’ jobs in one. This linen-room’s just opposite Mr.
Deacon’s room, and the girl said last night that she knew he hadn’t
come out because, having the door of this linen-room open all the
time, she couldn’t have helped but see him if he had.
“But she told a different tale this morning, sir, when I talked to her
after you’d left me. I wasn’t thinking about Deacon at all, to tell
you the truth, when out she comes with something about having made a
mistake. ‘What’s that?’ I said, and told her not to be nervous. Then
she tells me that she hadn’t been in the linen-room all that time
after all. She’d left it for about ten minutes to go downstairs. She
was very upset—seemed to think we’d think she was a criminal for
having made a slip in her memory.” Boyd laughed.
Anthony did not. “What time was this excursion from the linen-closet?”
he asked.
“As near as the girl can remember, it was ten minutes or so after she
saw Deacon go into his room, sir.”
“And I suppose, according to you, that this Deacon left his room while
the girl was away, slipped out of the house, waited, climbed into the
study window, killed his employer, climbed out again, hid somewhere
till the fuss was over, got back unseen to his room, and then
pretended he hadn’t ever left it.”
Boyd looked reproach. “You’re being sarcastic, sir, I know; but as a
matter of fact that’s very nearly exactly what he did do.”
“Is it? You know, Boyd, it doesn’t sound at all right to me.”
“You won’t think that way, sir, when I tell you that we _know_
Deacon’s our man.” Boyd lowered his voice. “Colonel Gethryn, those
finger-prints on the weapon—the wood-rasp—are Deacon’s!”
“Are they now?” said Anthony irritably. “How d’you know? What did you
compare ’em with?”
Boyd looked at him almost with pity. “Got every one’s marks this
morning, sir.” He smiled happily. “Handed each one of ’em—when I was
alone with ’em, of course—a bit of white paper. Very mysterious I was
about it too, asking ’em if they recognised it. They didn’t: very
natural when you come to think each sheet was out of my notebook.” He
looked again at his watch.
“One moment,” said Anthony. “Found anything like a motive?”
The watch went back into its pocket. “We have, sir. Yes, you may well
look surprised—but we have. And the motive’s a nice little piece of
evidence in itself. A chance remark Sir Arthur made when I was talking
to him before luncheon-time put me on to it. Yesterday morning he
happened to walk with the deceased into the village. The deceased went
into the bank, and, luckily, Sir Arthur went in with him. Mr. Hoode
drew out a hundred of the best, so to speak—all in ten-pound notes. We
didn’t know of this before, because Sir Arthur had mentioned it to the
Chief Constable—Sir Richard Morley—last night, and Sir Richard had
somehow not thought it important enough information to pass on.”
Boyd’s tone conveyed his opinion of the Chief Constable of the county.
“Well, sir, I had a search made. That hundred was missing. But we
found it!”
Anthony ground his heel savagely into the gravel.
“I suppose it was secreted behind the sliding panel in Deacon’s room,
all according to Cocker?”
“Don’t know anything about any sliding panel, sir; nor any Mr. Cocker.
But Deacon’s room is just where we did find it. I verified the numbers
of the notes from the bank.”
“What’s Deacon say about it?”
The detective barked scornfully. “Said Mr. Hoode gave it to him for a
birthday present. Lord, a birthday present! So probable, isn’t it,
sir?”
“Why the withering irony, Boyd? It’s so improbable that it’s probably
true.”
Boyd snorted. “Now, sir, just think about it! Turn it over in your
mind, so to speak. Deacon’s alibi turns out all wrong. His movements
last night fit the time of the murder. A hundred pounds drawn from the
bank by the deceased are found stuffed into a collar-box in Deacon’s
room—a good hiding-place, but not one to put a ‘birthday-present’ in.
_And_, sir, Deacon’s finger-prints are found on the weapon which the
murder was done with! Why! it’s a case in a million, so to speak. Wish
they were all as easy.”
“All right, Boyd; all right. I’ll admit you’ve some justification.
Yes—I suppose—queer about those finger-prints! Very queer!”
Boyd smiled. “In fact, they settle the business by themselves, as you
might say.” His kindly face grew grave. “It’s quite clear, sir, I
think. That murder—one of the worst in my experience—was done for the
sake of a paltry hundred pounds!”
Anthony was not moved. “And your culprit, I presume,” he said,
“languishes in Marling’s jail.”
“If you mean have we arrested Deacon, sir, we have not. He doesn’t
know anything about us having found the prints of his fingers. And I’m
afraid I must ask you, sir, officially, to say nothing to him about
what I’ve told you. You see, this is one of those cases where contrary
to the general rule we should like the coroner’s jury to pass a
verdict against our man and then arrest him. I’m having him watched
until the inquest to-morrow, and we’ll nab him after.” Out came the
watch again; a look of horror crossed its owner’s face. “I must really
get off now, sir. I’m terrible late as it is. Got to report up at the
Yard. Good-day, sir, I’ll see you to-morrow if you’re still here. And
thank you for your help. It was you and what you said in your study
about it being an ‘insider,’ so to speak, that put me on the right
track, though I did take your other view at first. Now I see—as I’ve
done in the past, sir—that you generally know.”
Anthony concealed a smile at this attempt to gild the pill. “So I put
you on the right track, did I?” he said softly. “Or the wrong, my
friend; or the wrong! I don’t like it. I don’t like it a little bit.
It’s too rule-of-thumb. The Profligate Secretary, the Missing
Bank-Notes, the Finger-printed Blunt Instrument! It’s not even a good
shilling shocker. It’s too damnation ordinary, that’s what it is!”
If Boyd heard him he gave no sign, but hurried back to the waiting
car.
Anthony watched it out of sight. He communed with himself. No, he
didn’t like it. And where did She come in? And why, in the name of a
name, had she said: “Who shot him?” when the poor devil had had his
head battered in?
“That rather lets her out as regards the actual bashing,” he said,
half-aloud. “That’s a comfort, anyhow. But it’s perplexing, very
perplexing. ‘Do I sleep, do I dream, or is Visions about?’ I think,
yes, I think a little talk with the murderous secretary would do me
good—always remembering the official injunction not to tell him he’s
going to be hanged soon.”
2
Archibald Basil Travers Deacon—his parents have much to answer for—was
in the drawing-room. He sprawled in an easy-chair beside the open
windows. A book lay face-downwards upon his knees.
Anthony, entering softly, had difficulty in persuading himself that
this was the man he sought. He had expected the conventional private
secretary; he found a man in the late twenties with the face of a
battered but pleasant prize-fighter, the eyes of a lawyer, and the
body of Heracles.
Anthony coughed. The secretary heaved himself to his feet. The process
took a long time. The unfolding complete, he looked down upon
Anthony’s six feet from a height superior by five inches. He stretched
out a hand and engulfed Anthony’s. A tremendous smile split his face.
He boomed softly: “You must be Gethryn. Heard a lot about you. So
you’re here disguised as a bloodhound, what? Stout fellah!”
They sat, and Anthony produced cigars. When these were well alight,
“Queer show, this,” said Deacon.
“Very,” Anthony agreed.
Silence fell. Openly they studied each other. Deacon spoke first.
“Boyd,” he said, settling a cushion behind his great shoulders, “is
quite wrong.”
“Eh?” Anthony was startled.
“I remarked, brother, that your Wesleyan-lookin’ detective friend was
shinning up the wrong shrub.”
“Indeed,” said Anthony. “How?”
“Your caution, brother, is commendable; but I think you know what I
mean. Chief Detective-Inspector, or whatever he is, W. B. Boyd of
Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department—bless his fluffy
little bed-socks—is labourin’ under the delusion that I, to wit
Archibald Etcetera Deacon, am the man who killed John Hoode. You
apprehend me, Stephen?”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know, I wonder?”
“All depends on your meanin’, If you’re asking whether I know anything
about how the chief was done in, the answer’s ‘nothing.’ But if you
mean how much do I know of Scotland Yard’s suspicion of me, that’s a
different story.”
“Number two’s right,” said Anthony. “Fire ahead.”
“Comrade Boyd,” said the secretary, “is a tenacious, an indefatigable
old bird, and he’s found out some funny things. But what he doesn’t
see is that they’re only funny and no more. First, I didn’t contradict
him—very foolish of me, that—when it was obvious that he thought I’d
been in my room last night from ten until after they found the chief
done in in his study. I didn’t contradict him because the mistake
seemed as if it would get me out of a very compromising position. You
see, at about a quarter-past ten I left my room, went downstairs, out
of the front door, and enjoyed a cheery stroll on my lonesome. When I
came back I found the whole damn’ place in an uproar, the murder
having been already discovered. There was such a general shemozzle
that nobody noticed me come in until I got there, what! My—what’s the
officialese for it?—‘suppression of the truth’ gave Boyd clue number
one.
“Clue number two was the money. And the money was what had made me
seize on an alibi when it was handed to me on a plate—the alibi, I
mean. You see, it was so hellish awkward, this money business, and I
let old Bloodhound Boyd fog himself because I wanted time to think. It
was like this: the chief and I really were very good friends indeed—he
was a damn’ good fellah—though we did growl at each other
occasional-like; and I believe the poor old lad was really attached to
me; anyhow the money made it seem like that. He was a very canny old
Haggis, you know, but he was subject to fits of extraordinary
generosity. I mentioned some days ago—forget how it came up—that
Wednesday was my birthday. Well, last night, or rather yesterday
afternoon about five—when I took some papers in to him in the study,
he wished me many happy returns of the day before, apologised for
having forgotten the ceremony, and shoved an envelope into my mit: in
that envelope were ten crisp little tenners, all nice and new and
crumply-lookin’. Of course I did the hummin’ and haain’ act, but he’d
have none of it.
“‘No, my boy,’ he says, ‘you keep it. Must let an old fellah like me
do what I want.’ So I scraped at the old forelock and salaamed.
Thought it was damned decent of him, you know. As I was clearin’ out,
though, he stopped me, coughin’ and hum-hummin’ and lookin’ all
embarrassed. ‘Deacon,’ he said, ‘er-um-er-um—don’t you mention that
little memento to—to any one, will you?’ ‘Not if you’d rather I
didn’t, sir,’ says I. He gave a sickly sort of grin and muttered. But
I understood him all right. He meant his sister. She’s one of those
holy terrors that’s not a bad sort really. I always knew she kept a
pretty Jewish fist on the purse-ropes, though. P’r’aps that’s why he
didn’t give me a cheque.”
Anthony took the cigar from his mouth. “And Boyd,” he said, “finds out
that Hoode had this money in the house, institutes a search, and finds
it in your collar-box, which looks like an ingenious hiding-place but
was really just an accidental safe. He also finds out that you weren’t
in your room last night during all the time that you let him think you
were, and that you entered the house—probably by the verandah
door—just after the body was found. He looks at you and connects your
obvious strength with the ruts in Hoode’s skull. He sees your titanic
length of leg and argues that you’re the only person in the house
likely to be able to step through that open study-window without
marking the flower-bed by treading on the flowers. He does a sum, and
the answer is: _x_ equals the murderer and Archibald Deacon equals
_x_. That’s what you know, isn’t it?”
“You have it all, old thing, all! _Quel lucidité!_”
“But you haven’t,” said Anthony, thinking of the finger-prints and his
promise to Boyd. “There’s more in it than that, I’m afraid.” He puffed
at his cigar. “By the way, you didn’t do it, did you?”
“No,” said Deacon, and laughed.
Anthony smiled. “I shouldn’t have believed you if you’d said yes. You
can’t give me a line, I suppose? Any private suspicions of your own?
I’ve a bag of data, but nothing to hang it on.”
“The answer, old thing, is a lemon. Nary suspicion. But what’s all
this about data? Found anythin’ fresh?”
“Oh, well, you know”—Anthony waved vague hands. “Possibly yes,
possibly no, if you follow me. I mean, you never can tell.”
Deacon smiled. “Kamerad!” he said. “Served me right. But that’s me all
over, I’m afraid. Damn nosey! But you must admit I’m an interested
party.”
“I do,” Anthony said; then suddenly leaned forward. “Have you told me
_all_ you know?” he asked. “And are you going to tell me anything you
don’t _know_, but merely feel?”
Deacon was silent for perhaps a minute. “I can’t tell you anything
more that I _know_,” he said at last and slowly. “And as to the other,
what exactly are you driving at? D’you mean: do I definitely suspect
any one as being the murderer?”
Anthony nodded. “Just that.”
“Then the answer’s no. But I’ll tell you what I do feel very strongly,
and that’s that it isn’t any one belonging to the house.”
“So you think that, do you?” said Anthony. “You know, I’ve heard that
before about this affair.”
Deacon sat up. “Oh! And what do _you_ think? The reverse?”
Anthony shrugged non-committal shoulders.
“But it’s absurd,” said the secretary. “Quite utterly imposs’, my dear
feller!”
“Is it?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Ever read detective stories,
Deacon? Good ones, I mean. Gaboriau, for instance. If you do, you’ll
know that the ‘It’ is very often found among a bunch of ‘unlikely and
impossibles.’ And one of my chief stays in life is my well-proved
theory that Fiction is Truth. The trouble is that the stories are
often more true than the real thing. And that’s just where one goes
wrong, and sometimes gets left quite as badly off the mark as the
others. I’m beginning to think I may be doing that here.”
Deacon scratched his head. “I think you’re ahead of me,” he said.
“Never mind, I’m ahead of myself. A long way ahead.”
“Well, says I, I hope you catches yourself up soon.”
“Thanks.” Anthony got to his feet. “Is it possible for me to see Miss
Hoode this afternoon?”
“’Fraid not. Our Mr. Boyd saw her this morning, and she’s given orders
that that was enough.”
“Well, I prowl,” said Anthony, and walked to the door. “By the way, on
that walk of yours last night, that awkward walk, did you meet any
one? or even see any one?”
“No. And that’s awkward, too, isn’t it? Nary human being did I pass.”
Anthony opened the door. “Any time you think I’d be useful, let me
know,” he said, and passed into the passage.
Deacon’s voice followed him. “Thanks. When you’re wanted I’ll make a
noise like a murderer. Stout fellah!”
Walking down the passage which led to the great square hall, Anthony
pondered. It seemed impossible that this gigantic imperturbability was
a murderer. But how to explain the finger-prints? And Deacon did not
know of those prints. What would he do when told of them?
“The man’s in a mess,” he said to himself. “This week’s problem: how
to extricate him? The solution will be published in our next week’s
issue—per-haps!”
He came out into the hall. The utter silence of the house oppressed
him. Any sound, he thought, would be welcome, would make things seem
less like a nightmare.
He turned to his left, making for the verandah door. His fingers on
its handle, he paused. Behind him, to his right, was the door of the
study. His ears had caught a sound, a rustling sound, from that
direction. He looked about him. No one was near, in sight even. The
two men Boyd had left on duty had disappeared.
Quietly, he crossed to the study door. He laid his ear against it. He
heard the click of a lock, a light lock, then a rustle of paper, then
soft footsteps.
He crossed the hall to the foot of the stairs in three jumps. A
barometer and a clock hung on the wall. He studied them.
He heard the study door open, slowly, as if the one who opened were
anxious not to be noisy. Then came a rustle of skirts. He stepped out
from the shadow.
Half-way between the study and where he stood by the foot of the
stairs was a woman. Her hand, which had been at the bosom of her
dress, fell to her side.
Anthony moved towards her. Closer, he saw her more plainly—a tall,
square-shouldered grenadier of a woman, with a sexless,
high-cheekboned, long-nosed face. The features, the sand-coloured
hair, were reminiscent of the dead minister.
“Miss Hoode?” Anthony bowed. “My name is Gethryn. I believe that Sir
Arthur Digby-Coates has explained my presence.”
“Yes.” The woman’s tones were flat, lifeless as her face. She essayed
cordiality. “Yes, indeed. I told him I was glad, very glad, to have
your help. I need to apologise for not having spoken to you before,
but—I—but——”
Anthony raised a hand. “Believe me, madam, I quite understand. I would
like, if it is not an impertinence, to express my condolence.”
The woman bowed her head. “Thank you,” she said; pressing a hand to
her heart. “I—I must leave you. Give orders for anything you may
want.”
Anthony watched her mount the stairs and disappear. “My good woman—if
you really are a woman—what’s your trouble? Sorrow? Or fear? Or both?”
he thought. “And why were you in the study? And why were you so secret
about it? And above all, what did you hide in your flat bosom when you
saw me? Two whats and two whys.”
He stood filling his pipe. Assuredly this fresh mystery must be
investigated. And so must that of the lady that swam rivers in the
night and blinded her pursuer’s eyes and assaulted his heart in the
morning. If it had not been for Her all this would have been great
fun; but now—well, it was anything but amusing. She must know
something, and since Boyd had seen fit to suspect the one obviously
innocent person, it was Anthony Ruthven Gethryn’s business to find out
what she knew. What was so disturbing was the unreasonableness of the
affair. Nothing seemed to have motive behind it. Of course, there was
reason for everything—the Lady of the Sandal’s swim over the river,
the secret ravishing of the study by the bosomless, sexless sister of
the corpse, even the appearance of an innocent man’s finger-prints on
the murderer’s weapon—but were they sane reasons? At present it seemed
as if they could not be, and what could be more hopeless than the
search of a sane man for the motives of lunatics!
Anthony shook himself, chided and took himself in hand. “Gethryn,” he
murmured, “do something, man! Don’t stand here saying how difficult
everything is. Well, what shall I do? Have a look at the study? All
right.”
He still had the hall to himself. Quietly, he entered the study and
closed the door behind him.
He surveyed the room. He strove for memory of the sounds he had heard
just now when Laura Hoode had been there and he outside.
There had been a fumbling, a click, a pause and then the rustling of
paper. The writing-table was the most likely place. The drawers, he
knew, were all locked, but perhaps the gaunt sister had duplicate
keys. The originals were in Boyd’s official possession.
But it was unlikely that sister would have keys. He looked
thoughtfully at the table. Something of a connoisseur, he judged it as
belonging to the adolescence of the last century.
A desk more than a hundred years old! A mysterious, sinister woman
searching in it! “A hundred to one on. Secret Drawer!” thought
Anthony, and probed among the pigeon-holes. He met with no success,
and felt cheated. His theory of the essential reality of story-books
had played him false, it seemed.
Loath to let it go, he tried again; this time pulling out from their
sheaths the six small, shallow drawers which balanced the pigeon-holes
on the other side of the alcove containing the ink-well. The top
drawer, he noticed with joy, was shorter by over an inch than its five
companions. He felt in its recess with long, sensitive fingers. He
felt a thin rim of wood. He pressed, and nothing happened. He pulled,
and it came easily away. The Great Story-book Theory was vindicated.
He peered into the unveiled hollow. It was filled with papers, from
their looks recently tossed and crumpled.
“Naughty, naughty Laura!” said Anthony happily, and pulled them out.
There were letters, a small leather-covered memorandum-book, a larger
note-book and a bunch of newspaper-cuttings.
He pulled a chair up to the table and began to read. When he had
finished, he replaced the two little books and the letters. They were,
he judged, unimportant. The newspaper-cuttings he retained, slipping
them into his wallet. The illegality of the proceeding did not
apparently distress him.
He replaced the little drawers, careful to leave things as he had
found them. On his way to the door, he paused to examine the little
polished rosewood table which stood beside the grandfather clock and
was the fellow of that which supported the two tall vases he had
spoken of to Boyd. A blemish upon its glossy surface had caught his
eye.
On close inspection he found a faint scar some twelve inches long and
two wide. This scar was compounded of a series of tiny dents
occurring at frequent and regular intervals along its length and
breadth.
Anthony became displeased with himself. He ought to have noticed this
on his first visit to the room. Not that it seemed important—the
wood-rasp had obviously been laid there, probably by the murderer,
possibly by some one else—but, he ought, he considered, to have
noticed it.
He left the room, passed through the still empty hall and so into the
garden. Here, pacing up and down the flagged walk outside the study,
he became aware of fatigue. The lack of a night’s sleep and the
energies of the day were having their effect.
To keep himself awake, he walked. He also thought. Presently he halted
and stood glaring at the wall above the windows of the study. As he
glared, he muttered to himself: “That bit of dead creeper, now. It’s
untidy. Very untidy! And it doesn’t fit!”
Ten minutes later Sir Arthur found him, heavy-eyed, hands in pockets,
still looking up at the wall, heavy-eyed, and swaying ever so little
on his feet.
“Hallo, Gethryn, hallo!” Sir Arthur looked at him keenly. “You looked
fagged out, my boy. This won’t do. I prescribe a whisky and soda.” He
caught Anthony’s arm. “Come along.”
Anthony rubbed his eyes. “Well, I grow old, I grow old,” he said. “Did
you say a drink? Forward!”