Long before dusk came on that glorious day, long before I was due to
meet McNab at the Westenhanger cross-roads, I had done the job on which
he sent me. Dunn had not been drawing on his imagination about that
village. McNab was wrong there. It was a real place. It had an actual
existence. Unlike any other village it might be, but it is there to-day
for any one to go and see; and by eight o'clock that night I not only
knew its name but was lying among the gorse of the wide common watching
the house for which we searched.
What had happened was this. On arriving at Folkestone I went to a
garage close to the Central Station and explained to the proprietor,
a Mr. Large, that I wanted a good car and a driver who knew the
country-side. Whether or no Mr. Large from the further particulars
I gave him thought me mad, I cannot say. But as if to keep a close
eye on his property he declared that as none of his drivers knew the
country better than he did he would drive me himself. His doubts about
my mental condition must have been strengthened by what followed in
the next hour. For all the time I kept him running up and down over
and across and along that ridge of Downs lying behind Folkestone and
extending towards Canterbury. It must have seemed aimless to him.
"But isn't there anywhere you wish to go?" he asked at last, after I
had put many questions about this or that lonely house as we whizzed
past.
Well, by this time it seemed aimless even to me--just a filling in
of hours till McNab came. Then I remembered the village. Not that I
believed in it any more than McNab did. And I mentioned it to Mr. Large
more to give a rational look to our excursion than in any hope that
he would know of such a place. But the moment its peculiarities were
mentioned I saw him cock up his ear.
"Common about half a mile wide ... gates at each end," he muttered
reflectively. Then on went the brakes and he laughed. "Why, we're going
right away from it," he said.
I was utterly astonished.
"You don't mean it's a real place you _know_?" I cried.
"Sounds like Stelling Minnis," he said, beginning to jockey the cab
round. "Anyway, you'll see for yourself in half an hour."
And just on eight o'clock, after sliding down into the Elham Valley and
climbing the far ridge of Downs, we ultimately reached the lonely and
lovely place by way of a narrow, tortuous lane from the long, straight
Roman road called the Stone Street. As soon as we cleared the gate I
_knew_ this must be the place. A queer thrill sent my pulses leaping.
Before us the wide common stretched, sprinkled with gorse and young
green bracken, on either side the old houses widely separated, but all
standing on the two extreme edges like soldiers toeing a line. Straight
down the middle ran the road, and evidently to reach any of the houses
one had to leave the road and run over the turf among the gorse for
quite a quarter of a mile. But I hadn't come there to appreciate
Nature's beauty. So after the first catch of the breath when that
common opened before my eyes I stopped the car. On our left near the
gate there was an inn, a white house with the neat red signboard
bearing the words "The Rose and Crown."
"Wait here," I said to Mr. Large, "I've some enquiries to make."
Towards the inn I advanced very slowly. I had to get a grip of myself.
For it staggered me to perceive that here at last was the end of our
search, the end to all concealment. Here the people concerned must be
known.
Two men stood at the bar as I entered. Beyond the usual country salute
no word passed till I had tried what the "Rose and Crown's" ale could
do for a dry, a very dry, throat.
"Nice place this," I said to the elder man, an old fellow with a fringe
of grey beard round his neck.
"'Tain't that bad in summer," he replied grudgingly.
"You seldom see a stranger except in summer?" I went on.
"That's so, and not a many then, neither."
Here the landlord, leaning his folded arms on the counter, joined in
with:
"It's a God-forsaken spot, sir. Many's the day I don't draw three
quarts."
"But some people like lonely places. Even in winter I've known a man
seek for a spot like this, even when he'd got money and the whole world
to choose from," I added.
"That be like what her ladyship does," the young man said, rolling some
tobacco in his palms.
"That's right, Bob Ames," the old fellow nodded. "It don't surprise us
to see her little car a-rolling through the gorse at no season of th'
year. But she ain't been at the Minnis not lately."
"She were heere last January, Jacob Wytch."
"Ay, so she were, all alone too, a matter o' six weeks. But then a
Hardress ain't no stranger like what the gentleman was a-speaking of."
I set down my glass on hearing that, and if I spilt none of its
contents it was because the glass was half-empty. After that a few deft
questions yielded all I sought. The lady, it appeared, belonged to a
family called Hardress, formerly resident in the neighbourhood. She
had married during the war Sir Stephen Wye, a soldier. But he wasn't a
soldier now, I gathered. He was going into Parliament. It all came out
bit by bit. Yes, they lived in London, but Lady Wye had a little house
on the Common, for she liked to live there better than in London, she
did. No, she wasn't there now, but I could see the little house for
myself if I didn't believe them.
Fifteen minutes later I was lying among the gorse and bracken with the
house under observation. At first I watched the little white house with
the dull red tiles and the wooden garage at one end to see if I could
detect any sign of life within. McNab seemed confident, not only that
they would again seek refuge there, but would only approach the house
in darkness. And after watching for some time I concluded he was right.
No sign of life could I discern. No smoke rose from its chimneys.
I should, of course, have liked to go right up and make a close
inspection. That, however, I could not do without seeming over-curious
if I happened to be seen. And anyway I soon became convinced that
no one had yet arrived at the house. So I stayed where I was, well
concealed among the bracken and gorse bushes.
And then as I lay on that spring turf waiting, to put it plainly,
for a murderer to come, a trifling incident happened that touched my
imagination queerly at the moment. For presently there came slowly
along the grassy pathway between the bushes a sheep and her lamb. Both
seemed tired and neither saw me. I think they were making at the end of
a long day for the nook in which they passed the night. Then stepping
between me and the sun, now dipping into the far side of the common,
their fleeces became outlined in silver, like a halo, surrounding their
darkened bodies. An incongruous picture that was to establish itself in
my mind as it did among the terrible memories of the night then closing
in!
Soon after that, as the dusk of that golden evening deepened, I
began to think of my appointment to meet McNab at the Westenhanger
cross-roads. There was now just enough light to let me see the various
positions on the map, and as far as I could make it out, I was not less
than eight miles from the cross-roads. Mr. Large I had sent to the
"Rose and Crown" to await my return, letting him suppose I was looking
up a friend somewhere on the common. But with darkness coming on I had
to make a quick decision between keeping my appointment with McNab
and staying on to watch that house. Wisely or not I decided for the
latter. What weighed with me was the conviction that, if McNab were
right, the four walls of that house now empty would presently surround
the murderer. It would be good to know he was there! And whether he
came alone or accompanied by his wife or the misguided man, Kinloch,
no entry could be made without my knowledge. Then I saw what to do. I
must send Large to meet McNab and bring him back to Stelling Minnis.
Creeping away on hands and knees for a hundred yards or so I rose and
made for the inn. Large soon understood what I wanted, and as I saw his
red tail-light vanishing into the gloom my thought was that it was just
as well not to have the lights of a big car glaring over the common.
By the time I got back to my nook among the bushes night had set in. I
had forgotten how dark it can be in the country, how dark and still.
A hush seemed over everything. Once, far away, a dog barked, and the
sound came thin yet clear in the distance. Later I began to feel cold,
for the turf was now damp with the dew that had followed the day of
bright sunshine. Yet I had to be wary, for on that turf at that hour
any one might pass unheard and unseen.
Half an hour passed and nothing happened. Then came the thought
that I could now safely take a closer look at the cottage and its
surroundings. Indeed I felt compelled to move up nearer since the house
was no longer visible. What I wanted above all was to see if there
was any approach to the house from behind, through the fields beyond
the trees. This was my first intention, and after that to get myself
established at some point from which, since so little could be seen, I
would be able to hear the slightest sound even to the cautious opening
of a door or a footfall on the step.
But as I crept round the gable of that cottage it gave me a queer
feeling to recall how, much in the same way, I had stolen round behind
the house in Ealing on that fateful night. Then I had come on the
murdered man. Could it be, I asked myself, that I was now to find
myself face to face with the murderer? Well, I went round the house
as carefully as if that was about to happen, for I crept on step by
step with my hand on the butt of the automatic McNab had given me. Of
course I met no one, and an inspection of the enclosure behind the
house convinced me that no car could approach from that direction. To
surmount the loose stone wall under the trees would be easy, but on
that still night I knew no car could come within a mile without giving
ample warning of its approach. So I moved over with a freer mind to
have a look at the back of the house.
What I discovered there did not at first startle me at all. It was
apparently such a little thing: a pane of glass broken in one of the
windows. Some mischievous boy? So I said to myself till I observed
that it happened to be the pane next the catch. That made me stand and
listen, holding my breath. But the house seemed all dark and dead. The
mischievous boy, I told myself again. Such things do happen to the
windows of empty houses. Then I remembered the garage on the far side.
There I might be able to get a hint as to whether the house was really
as tenantless as it looked. Thither I went next, feeling along the
rough cast walls till I rounded the corner and arrived at the doors.
A little manipulation showed me that, though shut, the garage door
was unlocked. For a moment I stood speculating on the amount of noise
likely to be made if I tried to open that door. Little used as it must
have been, the hinges were sure to be very dry. Still, after finding
the door unlocked like that, I simply had to find out whether there was
a car inside. I risked the noise. It sounded almost like thunder to my
apprehensive ears, and I opened it only just enough to let me squeeze
inside. Then I stretched out my hands as I took a couple of steps
forward.
It was there all right. And when I had felt my way along the side of
the car and found the radiator still warm I did not doubt that the
house was less empty than it looked.
But after that garage discovery I made my first blunder. If only I
had been content with what I had achieved! For after that discovery
all I need have done was to go back to my old position in the bushes
and wait there till I saw the flashing of McNab's head-lights when he
drove along the road over the open common. But no! I must needs try to
better my best. Not content to leave well alone, I must needs try to
paint the lily. And so I ran into trouble at once. For on going round
to the back of the house once more to have another look at the window
I saw something that looked no more than a deep shadow moving towards
me from the direction of the loose stone wall. Had the man's eyes been
turned my way he must have seen me, for I must have been more visible
against the white background of the house than he himself was against
the gloom of those trees. I dropped to the ground and lay still. He
passed within a few feet of me. Then there came a double knock on the
kitchen door. I began cursing my foolishness, knowing that if a light
showed from the door I must be seen where I lay against the wall of the
house. Eventually the door creaked open. Unluckily I had fallen with my
head towards the door and had no chance of seeing anything. But I heard
probably all the better.
"Well?"
This came from the man who opened the door, and it was almost a snarl.
"It's all fixed up. The boat leaves on the ebb about eleven."
"Where is she?"
"She will meet you on the quay and go on board with you."
This time I recognized the voice. The accent was different, but in tone
and pitch it was Kinloch's voice. The other sniggered.
"I meant the boat this time," he said. "Eleven o'clock?"
"Yes; it gives me just time for what I'm going to say to you," Kinloch
snapped.
"Step in then. Sorry I'm in the dark. But of course you are familiar
with every corner of the house." The sneering voice was cut off by the
closing of the door.
Lying still I thought over what I had heard. The hostility existing
between the two men I didn't bother about. What troubled me was that
Kinloch and the woman had obviously made arrangements for the man's
escape. And she was to meet him somewhere--the place had only just
escaped mention--and go away with him. How? Not in a mail boat, since
they are independent of the tide. Nor in a small boat neither, for the
same reason. Some tramp it must be, now berthed in some inner harbour
in any of the south-eastern ports. Which? There were half a dozen
within thirty miles. For a moment I wondered how much Kinloch had to
say to the other man. If there was just time to say it that man might
be away almost at once, before McNab turned up. The possibility got me
to my feet at once. At all hazards I had either to find out more about
the port of departure or somehow to prevent him from getting there.
The door stood ever so slightly ajar. It appeared to open into a
passage, for I heard voices some way off as I pushed it carefully open.
Those raised voices made things easier, for they both guided me on
and covered any slight sound I might make in feeling my way along the
passage. By this time, however, the two men seemed to have thrown all
caution to the winds, so far as sound went, anyhow. More like a couple
of angry dogs they were, and the thought came to me that this probably
was their first meeting, their first, anyhow, at which the woman was
not present. I was glad, though, the woman was absent. Beyond question
she would have heard me. As soon as I got within earshot of their words
the first I heard was my old friend's name. Kinloch's voice had ceased.
He had had his say.
"By God, this is just too much," the other cried. "Too much from an
associate of Ponsonby Paget's. I tell you I had no more scruple about
removing him than in killing a rat. It made England a sweeter and safer
place."
"For your sort."
"Look here, you'd have gone the same way if she hadn't come into that
room and heard you whining."
"Whining! Did you say whining?"
"I did. The old blackmailer dead and his accomplice whining for his
life. That, I think, was the situation."
An odd sound came in the silence that followed--a kind of choking
sound. Then Kinloch said quietly:
"You are a fool to presume at this moment on what I was that night.
Your wife has told you I was in that room only by accident."
"My wife has told me many things. What she has not told me is how you
contrived to--alienate her affections."
"You blackguard! You'd better go now if you want to go at all."
Both men had jumped to their feet. It sounded as if they were about
to fly at each other's throats. But there was no certainty that our
man was not about to clear out. There was that in Kinloch's tone which
might well have made him decide to take the hissed out advice. So I
backed away down the passage. Somehow or other I had to prevent his
escape. Somehow or other I had to hold him up till McNab arrived. And
the safest way I could think of was to put the car out of action.
Throwing caution to the winds the instant I got outside I ran for the
garage. Knife in hand I squeezed through the door, my notion being to
slit the tyres. But as soon as I got my hands on the tyre I knew this
was impossible, for I found it to be of solid rubber. I ought to have
remembered what McNab had told me about this peculiar type of car.
What else could be done? Little enough I knew about motoring, but there
must be a dozen other ways of putting the mechanism out of action. And
the necessity for being quick about it hindered coherent thinking. Then
as I stood trying to think I heard from the direction of the house a
door bang, like a shot, and I began to feel feverishly about in the
dark for something heavy with which to strike the car, to damage the
mechanism, smash the switchboard or the steering wheel. Before my hands
found anything, however, and almost at once, there came the patter of
feet outside. In a second some one was tugging the garage doors wide
open. Despair swept over me like a flood. Was the man once more to
escape? I seized hold of the car as if to stop it leaving the garage.
Then a swift inspiration came. Putting a foot on the running board I
vaulted on to the back seat and slid down to the floor of the car, off
a fur rug lying on the seat. There I stayed, crouching low.
Of course the moment the engine started I saw what I could have done.
Though ignorant about motors, I had some electrical knowledge and knew
how quickly and silently I could have put the battery on the foot-board
out of action. But it was too late to retrieve that stupidity, and I
tried to comfort myself with the thought that run where he liked he
could not run away from me.
There was but one moment when I feared discovery, and that came when he
got down to shut the garage doors after we had moved out. Fortunately,
though, he had not switched on the head-lights, and so there was no
back radiance from the wall of the house by which he might well have
seen me lurking in the gloom. When I heard him busy with the doors
I drew the fur rug over me. Then I felt fairly safe, for the space
between the seats on that type of car is narrow, and the floor behind
being much lower than in the front I found myself well down below the
seat level.
We went across the common without lights, running on the turf with
surprising silence and smoothness. But once through the winding lane
and out on the long, straight Roman road he switched on the lights
and increased the pace. That the lights were on I was made aware by a
narrow beam which came through a small spy-hole in the back just above
the seat, a contrivance peculiar to the car, to let the driver see that
the rear-light was showing.
Thrusting a hand from beneath my rug I used this spot of light to look
at my wrist watch. On seeing the time was 10.33 I made two inferences:
first that something must have happened to McNab, and secondly that the
unknown port for which we were bound could not be very distant. What
was I to do? The responsibility of McNab's absence threw upon me was
grave, and I didn't like it. Meanwhile we were travelling fast along
the straight, empty road, and before long I felt the descent from the
ridge begin. Down and down we went at a headlong pace. I took a peep
over the side when the numerous twists and corners of the road must
have kept the man's whole attention.
Out in the open country again, past solitary, darkened houses, I judged
him to be making for Folkestone. By and by I saw from the regular,
recurrent flashes that we were passing lamp-posts, and the pace
steadied down. The problem I struggled with was how to get the man into
the hands of the Folkestone police before he knew what was happening to
him. And I was desperately anxious to see the job done as neatly and
nicely as McNab could desire, without mess or fuss.
He was heading for the harbour. But could I depend on a policeman being
there? I did not know. Then a trick occurred to me. Taking out a long
lead pencil I thrust it through the spy-hole already described, and
smashed the tiny bulb which illuminated the transparent registration
plate: the car had now no rear-light. Hopefully I crouched down
again, hidden by my fur rug, and wondering whether I could rely on
the vigilance of the Folkestone police. We had not gone far among the
streets before I had my answer. There came a peremptory shout to stop,
followed by the sound of running feet. A half-smothered oath sounded
above my head, but the speed increased. Farther on there came another
shout, and then a shrill police whistle. If this was meant as a signal
to some comrade farther on it failed to effect its purpose, for the car
was swung violently down a side street. Then indeed I saw the mistake
I had made. The man was frantic with fear. Not knowing why the police
tried to stop him he had jumped to the conclusion they were after him
for the murder. My opinion is that under the shock of this the man's
mind became unhinged. We flew through the streets at a pace which
brought shouts and calls from right and left, and from people other
than the police.
After we rounded the right angle bend, before the steepest section of
the ascent begins, and he could see no lights of a pursuing car down
below on his right, it is possible he thought the outcries were raised
solely on account of excessive speed. Indeed most, almost certainly,
were so caused. And I have a notion that he had persuaded himself into
the belief that all were so caused before we reached the summit of that
mighty ascent. McNab once said in my hearing that no pessimist is ever
a murderer. But we had not gone more than a mile or so along the top,
past the Valiant Sailor Inn, before coming to the thing that broke him
finally.
I knew something was up ahead of us. He swore and slowed down suddenly.
Yet it was something he was not sure about. I inferred that from the
fact that the car still travelled forward, though at a crawl. Obviously
he was creeping up for a closer look. So knowing his attention to be
thus fixed I rose on my knees to have a look myself. Right ahead a long
stretch of the near side of the road seemed to be "up" for repairs.
In front of the night watchman's booth an open brazier burned freely,
and I could see the red lamp in the centre of the road and a string
of others extending behind, marking the space on the off side left
available for traffic. It bothered me to guess what there was to rouse
suspicion there. It all seemed open and above-board. I could see the
lonely old watchman quite distinctly, poking the brazier into a blaze.
Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was his recently rattled nerves,
perhaps he didn't like being guided into that long narrow strip of road
on the off side, but at last he made up his mind and set his foot down
on the accelerator. We jumped forward for the opening.
And the next moment I saw that the instinct that had made my man
hesitate had been, however blind, a sure one. For from the watchman's
booth a helmeted figure stepped into the road with uplifted hand while
others not in uniform seemed to spring from nowhere in front of us, and
as if to clinch the thing I saw at the far end of the string of lamps
the brilliant head-lights of a car which moved into and completely
blocked the narrowed road. He must have seen the game was up. But
perhaps he still thought he had a chance by swerving on to the turf and
rounding the car at the far end. We have been unable to agree on the
point. But swerve he did, and that violently to the right. It was the
cry from the men in the road that warned me--that and the gathering
speed of the car on the grassy slope. I was aware that the sea lay on
the right, but how far below I did not guess till I recalled the long
ascent we had made. But that remembrance, flashing into my mind, sent
me first to the seat and then with one mad leap over the side. Over and
over I rolled and then slid head first after the car, gripping at tufts
of bent grass and trying to dig in my toes. It seemed an eternity, but
it could have been but a mere fraction of time, for as I came to rest
I could see the lights of the downward plunging car. At once it seemed
to leave the earth and drop into space. Then something white loomed up
below and the car struck a projecting spur of the cliff and, passing on
with one head-light out, left behind it a cloud of white dust.
The final plunge into the abyss followed, and this was traceable only
by the single remaining head-light, which went down like a falling
star. Far below the one little disc of light shone for a second on the
tops of a clump of pine trees. A far away faint crashing and rending
of branches came up to me and the light went out. A moment's strange
silence followed. Then the startled sea-gulls on the ledges below,
launching themselves into the air, rose past me, with noisy flapping
wings and wild raucous outcries that seemed to rend the night. Then the
tussock of bent grass to which I had been clinging gave way in my hand
and after a frantic clutch or two I slid forward and fell into space.
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes again I was in a room flooded with sunlight.
A nurse moved softly about the room. I watched her drowsily for a
moment or two. Something told her I was awake, for she turned towards
me watchfully. Then she smiled, and her smile seemed to increase the
sunlight in the room.
"What hospital is this?" I asked.
She moved noiselessly over.
"Hush," she said. "You must not talk."
"What happened?" I demanded.
"You fell over the cliff while bird-nesting." She held up a forefinger.
"But no more questions till Dr. Cadbury has seen you."
She slipped from the room, and I must have fallen asleep again, for the
next I remember is hearing two men's voices talking in subdued tones.
"... and you got hurt yourself they told me when I went to view the
body," the deep voice that had probably awakened me was saying.
"A sprained ankle only," the other voice murmured. "We did not know he
was in the car or how he got into it. But when we were hunting among
the wreckage after the body had been removed, some one noticed him
lying half-way down the cliff. He'd been there all night. I slipped in
getting to him. A mere nothing, but I rest my foot in sitting beside
him till he comes round."
"What do the doctors say about him?"
"Concussion, dislocation of the right shoulder and exposure. But he was
conscious yesterday for a few moments Nurse Jones tells me."
"Well, the inquest ought to have been adjourned till he came round, and
Kinloch too, if he does."
"But, Snargrove, there was no evidence he was in the car. And I
wasn't there myself when it went over. Look here, this is what
happened," McNab went on after a pause. "I was to have met Chance
at the Westenhanger cross-roads at dusk. But I was late through a
breakdown beyond Ashford. When I got to the place I found the driver
of Chance's car waiting with a message. I was to come on to where
Chance had been left. I did not go, because a few questions to the man
convinced me that Chance had scored a success and had not himself kept
the appointment because he had located our man. So I went on to the
police station at Seabrook, where I laid an information while the car
was filling up at a garage opposite. The station soon had the wires
humming, the smart detective constable there taking the precaution of
telephoning to the harbours to cut off every possible avenue of escape.
That is how he learned of the Dutch tramp 'Van Helder,' due to leave
Dover on the ebb at 11 p.m. And it was he who fixed up the roads,
including the one on the Dover-Folkestone road where repairs were going
on.
"Then I got Large to take me to Stelling Minnis. So far I knew only the
name of the place Chance had lighted on, but not the name of the man,
though I had given the police the description of him we had got from
Howley. At Stelling Minnis there was, however, no sign of Chance. But
a few questions to Large sent me to the inn, and from the landlord,
whom I pumped as to the questions Chance had put there earlier that
evening, I got all that was necessary for me to know. The landlord, I
believe, thought we were police searching for Chance, whom we suspected
of planning to burgle Sir Stephen Wye's cottage. So it was from the
landlord's lips I first heard the name of the Ealing murderer. We found
his house in a few minutes, and, as you know, we found, too, that he
had gone, this time leaving Kinloch behind."
"Wye was our man right enough," Snargrove agreed. "I took his
finger-prints this morning. But the name did not come as a surprise
when you telephoned it to the Yard."
"What?" McNab cried. "You suspected him?"
"Had him on my list of possibles. You will understand that, in addition
to the private letters and papers, I went through the _Eye Opener_
pretty thoroughly. Well, among other items that took my eye there was
this item: 'The rumour that Sir Stephen Wye will be nominated for the
Byewich division in Suffolk is without foundation. We have the best
authority for asserting that Sir Stephen will not stand.' That appeared
in the issue dated Saturday, January 13th."
"And Ponsonby Paget was murdered on the 15th. Wye, of course, went to
see Paget about it, and there learned that Paget had acquired certain
information about him which if published would wreck his political
ambitions."
"Beyond doubt," Snargrove agreed. "But you will understand that Wye's
name was only one among a number of other possibles--some far more
promising. So when we enquired into his doings that night we found he
had an alibi that seemed beyond doubt. You are interested in alibis?
This is a good one. Notice, Wye's house, Whitelands, is five miles,
roughly, from Ealing. We began with an investigation of his movements
on the Monday, the day of the murder. Lady Wye had been away in the
country for a week, but was to have returned that night. Wye had a
chill, and went to bed about eight. Somewhere about ten he rang, with
a request for some hot whisky, at the same time asking if Lady Wye had
arrived. The butler answered in the negative, saying that the fog would
account for the delay. To this Sir Stephen agreed, and, with the order
that he should not be disturbed, bade the man good night and switched
off the light."
McNab laughed softly.
"And then he got out of bed again, eh? And left the house by the
window. After that he loitered in the road to stop Lady Wye before she
reached the house. He would know her car by the very distinctive note
of the two stroke engine in time to stop her before she passed him. He
then got her to drive him to Ealing for the interview with Ponsonby
Paget. Next morning the butler enters to pull up the blinds, and finds
his master asleep, eh? Then the master is informed that Lady Wye has
not, after all, returned."
"Exactly the butler's testimony; the thing was an absolute success,"
Snargrove agreed.
"Oh, a relative success, please," McNab pleaded. "Have you forgotten an
inquest has just been held on the man?"
"That's more of your logic, I suppose. Still, I'll admit it's served
you well in this case. But for your inferences from that walking-stick
there would have been no inquest on the body of Stephen Wye this
morning. But the verdict--think of it: accidental death, with an
expression of sympathy for Lady Wye, and a censure of the road
surveyor. I'm going to have a word or two with Lady Wye presently, but
not of sympathy."
"You can't proceed against a wife for not turning informer against her
husband. And, after all, she did not necessarily know why he wanted her
to drive him over to Ponsonby Paget's--not anyhow till after the crime
had been done."
"True; but I did not mean that. As accessory we lay our hands on this
man Kinloch if, and when, he recovers."
"My dear Snargrove," McNab's voice protested, "how can you prove him
an accessory? You might as well try to prove myself, or poor Godfrey
there, accessories. All the evidence we have goes to prove that Kinloch
was as keen as you or me to discover who the murderer was. And so far
from assisting him to escape it looks beyond doubt as if he had been
shot by Wye just before he bolted for Dover. A greater crime that than
the removal of a blackmailer! And I'll warrant Lady Wye, at least,
would agree with me. I'd like to have seen the man hanged. Still, a
six-foot drop on the gallows would hardly be as terrifying as that
two-hundred-foot drop over the cliff, and hanging, after all, would not
make the man any more dead than he is."
McNab's unconsciously raised voice brought Nurse Jones into the room.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but if you have more to say would you mind
coming into the next room. Talking may disturb the patient."
"Sorry. I am just going," Snargrove said, rising like a lamb.
McNab also got up.
"I'll try my ankle along the corridor. Doesn't do to let it get stiff,"
he said, taking Snargrove's arm.
When they were out the nurse turned to me.
"Oh," she said, "so you have come round."
"I may relapse if you run away again," I warned her.
But this time she rang the bell instead.
"You look better, much better," she said, looking at me fixedly from
the foot of the bed. "So what they say can't be true."
"What do they say?"
"That those two men are detectives."
"But they are."
The pretty, fair-haired nurse opened her eyes wide.
"What have you been up to? Not bird-nesting; they wouldn't be watching
you for that, surely."
She was so astonished that she did not see McNab in the doorway.
"One of them," I said, "is my best friend."
"Oh, you mean the smaller one--the lame detective?"
A laugh that made her wheel round came from McNab.
"No, no, nurse," he said, "a lame _man_, if you like, but not, _not_ a
lame detective."
And when Nurse Jones had fled from this logic to summon the matron and
the doctor or both, I got in the question I had burned to put.
"Kinloch--is he dying, then?"
McNab looked at me solemnly.
"Kinloch is in Paradise, my son."
He sat down on the chair beside my bed and took hold of my hand.
"You've just had the news?" I gasped.
"Saw him in it this morning. He, too, you understand, has what is
called a ministering angel at his bedside. I took her there from Dover
yesterday."
Then as I stared he affected to have misunderstood me.
"Oh, I see what you meant--the bullet wound. Well, a week or two will
see him cured of _that_. He's in no more danger of going to the real
Paradise than you are yourself."
THE END