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Malcolm Sage, Detective

by Herbert George Jenkins · English · Gutenberg #28084 · 386,103 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Malcolm Sage, Detective

Author: Herbert George Jenkins


        
Release date: February 14, 2009 [eBook #28084]
                Most recently updated: April 4, 2015

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28084

Credits: E-text prepared by Alan Winterrowd


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MALCOLM SAGE, DETECTIVE ***


E-text prepared by Alan Winterrowd



MALCOLM SAGE, DETECTIVE

by

HERBERT GEORGE JENKINS







CONTENTS


    I     Sir John Dene Receives His Orders
   II     The Strange Case of Mr. Challoner
  III     Malcolm Sage's Mysterious Movements
   IV     The Surrey Cattle-Maiming Mystery
    V     Inspector Wensdale Is Surprised
   VI     The Stolen Admiralty Memorandum
  VII     The Outrage at the Garage
 VIII     Gladys Norman Dines with Thompson
   IX     The Holding Up of Lady Glanedale
    X     A Lesson in Deduction
   XI     The McMurray Mystery
  XII     The Marmalade Clue
 XIII     The Gylston Slander
  XIV     Malcolm Sage Plays Patience
   XV     The Missing Heavyweight
  XVI     The Great Fight at the Olympia
 XVII     Lady Dene Calls on Malcolm Sage




CHAPTER I     SIR JOHN DENE RECEIVES HIS ORDERS




I


"John!"

"Yeh!"

"Don't say 'yeh,' say 'yes,' Dorothy dear."

"Yes, Dorothy de----"

Sir John Dene was interrupted in his apology by a napkin-ring
whizzing past his left ear.

"What's wrong?" he enquired, laying aside his paper and picking up
the napkin-ring.

"I'm trying to attract your attention," replied Lady Dene, slipping
from her place at the breakfast-table and perching herself upon the
arm of her husband's chair. She ran her fingers lightly through his
hair. "Are you listening?"

"Sure!"

"Well, what are you going to do for Mr. Sage?"

In his surprise at the question, Sir John Dene jerked up his head to
look at her, and Dorothy's forefinger managed to find the corner of
his eye.

He blinked vigorously, whilst she, crooning apologies into his ear,
dabbed his eye with her handkerchief.

"Now," she said, when the damage had been repaired, "I'll go and sit
down like a proper, respectable wife of a D.S.O.," and she returned
to her seat. "Well?" she demanded, as he did not speak. "Yes, dear."

"What are you going to do for Mr. Sage, now that Department Z is
being demobbed? You know you like him, because you didn't want to
ginger him up, and you mustn't forget that he saved your life," she
added.

"Sure!"

"Don't say 'sure,' John," she cried. "You're a British baronet, and
British baronets don't say 'sure,' 'shucks' or vamoose.' Do you
understand?"

He nodded thoughtfully;

"I like Mr. Sage," announced Dorothy. Then a moment later she added,
"He always reminds me of the superintendent of a Sunday-school, with
his conical bald head and gold spectacles. He's not a bit like a
detective, is he?"

"Sure!"

"If you say it again, John, I shall scream," she cried.

For some seconds there was silence, broken at length by Dorothy.

"I like his wonderful hands, too," she continued. "I'm sure he's
proud of them, because he can never keep them still. If you say
'sure,' I'll divorce you," she added hastily.

He smiled, that sudden, sunny smile she had learned to look for and
love.

"Then again I like him because he's always courteous and kind. At
Department Z they'd have had their appendixes out if Mr. Sage wanted
them. Now have you made up your mind?"

"Made it up to what?" he asked, lighting a cigar.

"That you're going to set him up as a private detective," she said
coolly. "I don't want him to come here and not find everything
planned out."

"He won't do that," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "He's no
lap-dog."

"I wrote and asked him to call at ten to-day," she said coolly.

"Snakes, you did!" he cried, sitting up in his chair.

"Alligators, I did!" she mocked.

"You're sure some wife;" he looked at her admiringly.

"I sure am," she laughed lightly, "but I'm only just beginning, John
dear. By the way, I asked Sir James Walton to come too," she added
casually.

"You----" he began, when the door opened and a little, silver-haired
lady entered. Sir John Dene jumped to his feet.

"Behold the mother of the bride," cried Dorothy gaily.

"Good morning, John," said Mrs. West as he bent and kissed her cheek.
She always breakfasted in her room; she abounded in tact.

"Now we'll get away from the eggs and bacon," cried Dorothy. "In the
language of the woolly West, we'll vamoose," and she led the way out
of the dining-room along the corridor to Sir John Dene's den.

"Come along, mother-mine," she cried over her shoulder. "We've got a
lot to discuss before ten o'clock."

Sir John Dene's "den" was a room of untidiness and comfort. As
Dorothy said, he was responsible for the untidiness and she the
comfort.

"Heigh-ho!" she sighed, as she sank down into a comfortable chair.
"I wonder what Whitehall would have done without Mr. Sage;" she
smiled reminiscently. "He was the source of half its gossip."

"He was very kind to you, Dorothy, when John was--was lost," said
Mrs. West gently, referring to the time when Sir John Dene had
disappeared and a reward of 20,000 pounds had been offered for news
of him.

"Sure!" Sir John Dene acquiesced. "He's a white man, clean to the
bone."

"It was very wonderful that an accountant should become such a
clever detective," said Mrs. West. "It shows----" she paused.

"You see, he wasn't a success as an accountant," said Dorothy. "He
was always finding out little wangles that he wasn't supposed to see.
So when they wouldn't have him in the army, he went to the Ministry
of Supply and found out a great, big wangle, and Mr. Llewellyn John
was very pleased. You get me, Honest John?" she demanded, turning to
her husband.

Sir John Dene nodded and blew clouds of cigar smoke from his lips.
He liked nothing better than to sit listening to his wife's
reminiscences of Whitehall, despite the fact that he had heard most
of them before.

"Poor Mr. Sage," continued Dorothy, "nobody liked him, and he's got
such lovely down on his head, just like a baby," she added, with a
far-away look in her eyes.

"Perhaps no one understood him," suggested Mrs. West, with
instinctive charity for the Ishmaels of the world.

"Isn't that like her," cried Dorothy, "but this time she's right,"
she smiled across at her mother. "When a few thousand tons of copper
went astray, or someone ordered millions of shells the wrong size,
Mr. Sage got the wind up, and tried to find out all about it, and in
Whitehall such things weren't done."

"They tried to put it up on me," grumbled Sir John Dene, twirling
his cigar with his lips, "but I soon stopped their funny work."

"Everybody was too busy winning the war to bother about trifles,"
Dorothy continued. "The poor dears who looked after such things
found life quite difficult enough, with only two hours for lunch and
pretty secretaries to be----"

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West reproachfully.

"Well, it's true, mother," she protested.

It was true, as Malcolm Sage had discovered. "Let us concentrate on
what we know we _have_ got," one of his chiefs had once gravely said
to him. "Something is sure to be swallowed up in the fog of war," he
had added. Pleased with the phrase, which he conceived to be
original, he had used it as some men do a titled relative, with the
result that Whitehall had clutched at it gratefully.

"The fog of war," General Conyers Bardulph had muttered when, for
the life of him, he could not find a division that was due upon the
Western Front and which it was his duty to see was sent out.

"The fog of war," murmured spiteful Anita McGowan, when the pretty
little widow, Mrs. Sleyton, was being interrogated as to the
whereabouts of her husband.

"The fog of war," laughed the girls in Department J.P.Q., when at
half-past four one afternoon neither its chief nor his dark-eyed
secretary had returned from lunch.

"But when he went to Department Z he was wonderful," said Mrs. West,
still clinging tenderly to her Ishmael.

"He was," said Sir John Dene. "He was the plumb best man at his job
I ever came across."

"Yes, John dear, that's all very well," said Dorothy, her eyes
dancing, "but suppose you had been the War Cabinet and you had sent
for Mr. Sage;" she paused.

"Well?" he demanded.

"And he had come in a cap and a red tie," she proceeded, "and had
resigned within five minutes, saying that you were talking of things
you didn't know anything about." She laughed at the recollection.

"He was right," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "I've come
across some fools; but----"

"There, there, dear," said Dorothy, "remember there are ladies
present. In Whitehall we all loved Mr. Sage because he snubbed
Ministers, and we hadn't the pluck to do it ourselves," she added.

Sir John Dene snorted. His mind travelled back to the time when he
had been "up against the whole sunflower-patch," as he had once
expressed it.

"But why did they keep him if they didn't like him?" enquired Mrs.
West.

"When you don't like anyone in Whitehall," Dorothy continued, "you
don't give him the push, mother dear, you just transfer him to
another department."

"Like circulating bad money," grumbled Sir John Dene.

"It sure was, John," she agreed. "Poor Mr. Sage soon became the most
transferred man in Whitehall. They used to say, 'Uneasy lies the
head that has a Sage.'" She laughed at the recollection.

"But wasn't it rather unkind?" said Mrs. West gently.

"It was, mother-mine; but Whitehall was a funny place. One of Mr.
Sage's chiefs went about for months trying to get rid of him. He
offered to give a motor-cycle to anyone who would take him, it was a
Government cycle," she added; "but there was nothing doing. We
called him Henry the Second and Mr. Sage Becket, the archbishop not
the boxer," she explained. "You know," she added, "there was once
an English king who wanted to get rid of----"

"We'll have it the sort of concern that insurance companies can look
to," Sir John Dene broke in.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" cried Dorothy.

Whilst his wife talked Sir John Dene had been busy planning Malcolm
Sage's future, and he had uttered his thoughts aloud. He proceeded
to explain. When he had finished, Dorothy clapped her hands.

"Hurrah! for Malcolm Sage, Detective," she cried and, jumping up,
she perched herself upon the arm of her husband's chair, and rumpled
the fair hair, which with her was always a sign of approval. "That's
his ring, or Sir James's," she added as the bell sounded.

"Now we'll leave you lords of creation to carry out my idea," she
said as she followed Mrs. West to the door.

And Sir John Dene smiled.




II


"In the States they've got Pinkerton's," said Sir John Dene,
twirling with astonishing rapidity an unlit cigar between his lips.
"If you've lost anything, from a stick-pin to a mountain, you just
blow in there, tell them all about it, and go away and don't worry.
Here you've got nothing."

"We have Scotland Yard," remarked Malcolm Sage quietly, without
looking up from the contemplation of his hands, which, with fingers
wide apart, rested upon the table before him.

His bald, conical head seemed to contradict the determined set of
his jaw and the steel-coloured eyes that gazed keenly through large
gold-rimmed spectacles. Even his ears, that stood squarely out from
his head, appeared to emphasise by their aggressiveness that they
had nothing to do with the benevolent shape of the head above.

"Yes, and you've got Cleopatra's Needle, and the pelicans in St.
James's Park," Sir John Dene retorted scornfully. He had never
forgotten the occasion when, at a critical moment in the country's
history, the First Lord of the Admiralty had casually enquired if he
had seen the pelicans.

For the last half-hour Sir John Dene, with characteristic
impulsiveness, had been engaged in brushing aside all Malcolm Sage's
"cons" with his almighty "Pro."

"We'll have a Pinkerton's in England," he resumed, as neither of his
listeners took up his challenge, "and we'll call it Sage's."

"I shall in all probability receive quite a number of orders for
shop-fronts," murmured Malcolm Sage, with a slight fluttering at the
corners of his mouth, which those who knew him understood how to
interpret.

"Shop-fronts!" repeated Sir John Dene, looking from one to the other,
"I don't get you."

"There is already a well-known firm of shop-furnishers called
'Sage's,'" explained Sir James, who throughout the battle had been
an amused listener.

"Well, we'll call it the Malcolm Sage Detective Bureau," replied Sir
John Dene, "and we'll have it a concern that insurance companies can
look to." He proceeded to light his cigar, with him always a sign
that something of importance had been settled.

Sir John Dene liked getting his own way. That morning he had
resolutely brushed aside every objection, ethical or material, that
had been advanced. To Malcolm Sage he considered that he owed a
lot,* and with all the aggressiveness of his nature, he overwhelmed
and engulfed objection and protest alike. To this was added the fact
that the idea was his wife's, and in his own phraseology, "that
goes."

[* See John Dene of Toronto for the story of how Malcolm Sage
frustrated the enemies of Sir John Dene.]

Passive and attentive, his long shapely hands seldom still, Malcolm
Sage had listened. From time to time he ventured some objection,
only to have it brushed aside by Sir John Dene's overwhelming
determination.

For some minutes Malcolm Sage had been stroking the back of his head
with the palm of his right hand, a habit of his when thoughtful.
Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked across at his would-be
benefactor.

"Why should you want to do this for me, Sir John?" he asked.

"If you're going to put up a barrage of whys," was the irascible
retort, "you'll never cut any ice."

"I fully appreciate the subtlety of the metaphor," said Malcolm Sage,
the corners of his mouth twitching; "but still why?"

"Well, for one thing I owe you something," barked Sir John Dene,
"and remembering's my long suit. For another, Lady Dene----"

"That is what I wanted to know," said Malcolm Sage, as he drew his
briar from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. "Will you thank Lady
Dene and tell her that I am proud to be under an obligation to her--
and to you, Sir John," he added.

"Say, that's fine," cried Sir John Dene, jumping to his feet and
extending his hand, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzical
expression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."

"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said Malcolm
Sage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and he
looked across at Sir James Walton, whose eyes smiled his approval.

"It's all fixed up," cried Sir John Dene to his wife as she came out
into the hall as the visitors were departing.

"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'll
be such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into his
eyes.

"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"
and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to what
was left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had made
history by its Secret Service work.

In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage was
called by the staff, was to start a private-detective agency. The
whole staff promptly offered its services, and there was much
speculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage's
secretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room,
her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of Malcolm
Sage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that
"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the most
embarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it was
equally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision.
They called it "the Nelson touch."

James Thompson, Malcolm Sage's principal assistant, and William
Johnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and their
enthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, although
less dramatically expressed.

A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, Malcolm
Sage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and a
chauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.
Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was an
unnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet to
justify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at the
same time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, and
authorising him to select a car, find a garage, and wait
instructions.

Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the time
being with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thing
to which he was much addicted. Returning home on the evening of his
engagement he had bewildered Mrs. Tims by seizing her as she stood
in front of the kitchen-stove, a frying-pan full of sausages in her
hand, and waltzing her round the kitchen, frying-pan and all.

Subsequently five of the six sausages had been recovered; but the
sixth was not retrieved until the next morning when, in dusting, Mrs.
Tims discovered it on the mantelpiece.




CHAPTER II     THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. CHALLONER




I


"Please, sir, Miss Norman's fainted." William Johnson, known to his
colleagues as the innocent, stood at Malcolm Sage's door, with
widened eyes and a general air that bespoke helplessness.

Without a word Malcolm Sage rose from his table, as if accustomed
all his life to the fainting of secretaries. William Johnson stood
aside, with the air of one who has rung a fire-alarm and now feels
he is at liberty to enjoy the fire itself.

Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heap
beside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his own
room, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a small
cupboard and, still watched by the wide-eyed William Johnson,
proceeded to force a little between her teeth.

Presently her lids flickered and, a moment later, she opened her
eyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, then
suddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed upon
the door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and saw
framed in the doorway Sir James Walton.

"Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girl
sitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall be
free in a moment."

It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mind
the situation explained itself.

As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining hand
upon her arm.

"Send Mr. Thompson."

With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnson
that the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, at
least as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad left
the room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to his
seat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit in
preliminary judgment upon callers.

When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move the
leather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she was
rested, to take her home in the car.

Thompson's face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious.

The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes from
which tears were not far distant.

"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip trembling
ominously. "I've never done such a thing before."

"I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door.
"You must go home and rest."

She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned to
his seat at the table.

"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumed
his seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," he
added musingly, "but beautifully loyal."

Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of Malcolm
Sage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his late
chief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end and
proceeded to light it.

"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined the
lighted end.

"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing Sir
James Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days when
they had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered those
heads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as something
between a punishment and a misfortune.

"Busy?"

"Very."

For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to be
seated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise the
fact.

"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length,
having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigar
should draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, Geoffrey
Challoner."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; but
Malcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in an
ivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon the
handle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had been
disconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which they
interpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.

"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, the
butler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As there
was no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was not
there, but that the bed had not been slept in over night."

Malcolm lifted his hands from the paper-knife. It balanced.

"He thought Challoner had fallen asleep in the library," continued
Sir James, "which he sometimes did, he is rather a night-owl. Peters
then went downstairs, but found the library door locked on the
inside. As there was no response to his knocking, he went round to
the French-windows that open from the library on to the lawn at the
back of the house. The curtains were drawn, however, and he could
see nothing."

"Is it usual to draw the curtains?" enquired Malcolm Sage, regarding
with satisfaction the paper-knife as it gently swayed up and down
upon the inkstand.

"Yes, except in the summer, when the windows are generally kept
open."

Malcolm Sage nodded, and Sir James resumed his story.

"Peters then went upstairs to young Dane's room; Dane is Challoner's
nephew, who lives with him. While he dressed he sent Peters to tell
me.

"A few minutes later we all went down to the library and tried to
attract Challoner's attention; but without result. I then suggested
forcing an entry from the garden, which was done by breaking the
glass of one of the French-windows.

"We found Challoner seated at his table dead, shot through the head.
He had an automatic pistol in his hand." Sir James paused; his voice
had become husky with emotion. Presently he resumed.

"We telephoned for the police and a doctor, and I spent the time
until they came in a thorough examination of the room. The
French-windows had been securely bolted top and bottom from within,
by means of a central handle. All the panes of glass were intact,
with the exception of that we had broken. The door had been locked _on
the inside_, and the key was in position. It was unlocked by Peters
when he went into the hall to telephone. It has a strong mortice-lock
and the key did not protrude through to the outer side, so that
there was no chance of manipulating the lock from without. In the
fireplace there was an electric stove, and from the shower of soot
that fell when I raised the trap, it was clear that this had not
been touched for some weeks at least.

"The doctor was the first to arrive. At my urgent request he
refrained from touching the body. He said death had taken place from
seven to ten hours previously as the result of the bullet wound in
the temple. He had scarcely finished his examination when an
inspector of police, who had motored over from Lewes, joined us.

"It took him very few minutes to decide that poor Challoner had shot
himself. In this he was confirmed by the doctor. Still, I insisted
that the body should not be removed."

"Why did you do that, Chief?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who had
discarded the paper-knife and was now busy drawing geometrical
figures with the thumb-nail of his right hand upon the blotting pad
before him.

"Because I was not satisfied," was the reply. "There was absolutely
no motive for suicide. Challoner was in good health and, if I know
anything about men, determined to live as long as the gods give."

Again Malcolm Sage nodded his head meditatively.

"The jumping to hasty conclusions," he remarked, "has saved many a
man his neck. Whom did you leave in charge?" he queried.

"The inspector. I locked the door; here is the key," he said,
producing it from his jacket pocket. "I told him to allow no one
into the room."

"Why were you there?" Malcolm Sage suddenly looked up, flashing that
keen, steely look through his gold-rimmed spectacles that many men
had found so disconcerting. "Ordinary visit?" he queried.

"No." Sir James paused, apparently deliberating something in his
own mind. He was well acquainted with Malcolm Sage's habit of asking
apparently irrelevant questions.

"There's been a little difficulty between Challoner and his nephew,"
he said slowly. "Some days back the boy announced his determination
of marrying a girl he had met in London, a typist or secretary.
Challoner was greatly upset, and threatened to cut him out of his
will if he persisted. There was a scene, several scenes in fact, and
eventually I was sent for as Challoner's oldest friend."

"To bring the nephew to reason," suggested Malcolm Sage.

"To give advice ostensibly; but in reality to talk things over," was
the reply.

"You advised?" When keenly interested, Malcolm Sage's questions were
like pistol-shots.

"That Challoner should wait and see the girl."

"Did he?"

Malcolm Sage was intent upon outlining his hand with the point of
the paper-knife upon the blotting pad.

Again Sir James hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, however.

"Yes; but unfortunately with the object of endeavouring to buy her
off. Yesterday afternoon Dane brought her over. Challoner saw her
alone. She didn't stay more than a quarter of an hour. Then she and
Dane left the house together, he to see her to the station. An hour
later he returned. I was in the hall at the time. He was in a very
excited state. He pushed past me, burst into the library, banging
the door behind him.

"That evening at dinner Challoner told me there had been a very
unpleasant scene. He had warned the boy that unless he apologised
to-day he would telephone to London for his lawyer, and make a fresh
will entirely disinheriting him. Soon after the interview Dane went
out of the house, and apparently did not return until late--as a
matter of fact, after I had gone to bed. I was feeling tired and
said 'good night' to Challoner about half-past ten in the library."

For some time Malcolm Sage gazed upon the outline he had completed,
as if in it lay the solution of the mystery.

"It's a pity you let the butler unlock the door," he remarked
regretfully.

Sir James looked across at his late chief-of-staff keenly. He
detected something of reproach in his tone.

"Did you happen to notice if the electric light was on when you
entered the library?"

"No," said Sir James, after a slight pause; "it was not."

Malcolm Sage reached across to the private telephone and gave the
"three on the buzzer" that always galvanised Miss Gladys Norman into
instant vitality.

"Miss Norman," said Sage as she entered, "can you lend me the small
mirror I have seen you use occasionally?"

"Yes, Mr. Sage," and she disappeared, returning a moment later with
the mirror from her handbag. She was accustomed to Malcolm Sage's
strange requests.

"Feeling better?" he enquired as she turned to go.

"I'm all right now," she smiled, "and please don't send me home, Mr.
Sage," she added, and she went out before he had time to reply.

A quarter of an hour later the two men entered Sir James's car,
whilst Thompson and Dawkins, the official photographer to the Bureau,
followed in that driven by Tims. Malcolm Sage would cheerfully have
sacrificed anybody and anything to serve his late chief.

"And how am I to keep the shine off my nose without a looking-glass,
Johnny?" asked Miss Norman of William Johnson, as she turned to
resume her work.

"He won't mind if it shines," said the youth seriously; and Miss
Norman gave him a look, which only his years prevented him from
interpreting.




II


As the car drew up, the hall-door of "The Cedars" was thrown open by
the butler, a fair-haired clean-shaven man of about forty-five, with
grave, impassive face, and eyes that gave the impression of allowing
little to escape them.

As he descended the flight of stone-steps to open the door of the
car, a young man appeared behind him. A moment later Sir James was
introducing him to Malcolm Sage as "Mr. Richard Dane."

Dark, with smoothly-brushed hair and a toothbrush moustache, he
might easily have been passed over in a crowd without a second
glance. He was obviously and acutely nervous. His fingers moved
jerkily, and there were twitchings at the corners of his mouth that
he seemed unable to control. It was not a good-tempered mouth. He
appeared unconscious of the presence of Malcolm Sage. His eyes were
fixed upon the second car, which had just drawn up, and from which
Thompson and Dawkins were removing the photographic paraphernalia.

Peters conducted Sir James and Malcolm Sage to the dining-room,
where luncheon was laid.

"Shall I serve luncheon, Sir James?" he enquired, ignoring Dane, who
was clearly unequal to the strain of the duties of host.

Sir James looked across at Malcolm Sage, who shook his head.

"I'll see the library first," he said. "Sir James will show me.
Fetch Dawkins," he said to Thompson, and he followed Sir James
through the house out on to the lawn.

As they entered the library by the French-windows, a tall, sandy man
rose from the armchair in which he was seated. He was Inspector
Gorton of the Sussex County Constabulary. Malcolm Sage nodded a
little absently. His eyes were keenly taking in every detail of the
figure sprawling across the writing-table. The head rested on the
left cheek, and there was an ugly wound in the right temple from
which blood had dripped and congealed upon the table. In the right
hand was clutched a small, automatic pistol. The arm was slightly
curved, the weapon pointing to the left.

Having concluded his examination of the wound, Malcolm Sage drew a
silk-handkerchief from his pocket, shook out its folds and spread it
carefully over the blood-stained head of Mr. Challoner.

Sir James looked across at him, appreciation in his eyes. It was one
of those little human touches, of which he had discovered so many in
Malcolm Sage, and the heads of government departments in Whitehall
so few.

Malcolm Sage next proceeded to regard the body from every angle,
even going down on his knees to see the position of the legs beneath
the table. He then walked round the room and examined everything
with minute attention, particularly the key of the door, which Sir
James had replaced in its position on the inside. The keyhole on
both sides of the door came in for careful scrutiny.

He tried the door of a small safe at the far-end of the room; it was
locked. He then examined the fastenings of the French-windows.

Finally he returned to the table, where, dropping on one knee on the
left-hand side of the body, he drew a penknife from his pocket, and
proceeded with great care and deliberation to slit up the outer seam
of the trousers so that the pocket lay exposed.

This in turn he cut open, taking care not to disturb the bunch of
keys, which, attached to a chain, lay on the thigh, a little to the
left.

The others watched him with wide-eyed interest, the inspector
breathing heavily.

Having assured himself that the keys would not slide off, Malcolm
Sage rose and turned to Dawkins:

"I want a plate from the right, the left, the front, and from behind
and above. Also an exposure showing the position of the legs, and
another of the keys."

Dawkins inclined his head. He was a grey, bald-headed little man who
had only one thought in life, his profession. He seldom spoke, and
when he did his lips seemed scarcely to part, the words slipping out
as best they could.

Happy in the knowledge that his beloved camera was once more to be
one of the principal witnesses in the detection of a crime, Dawkins
set himself to his task.

"When Dawkins has finished," said Malcolm Sage, turning to the
inspector, who had been watching the proceedings with ill-disguised
impatience, "you can remove the body; but leave the pistol. Give Mr.
Challoner's keys to Sir James. And now I think we might lunch," he
said, turning to Sir James.

Malcolm Sage's attitude towards the official police was generally
determined by their attitude towards him. In the Department Z days,
he had been known at Scotland Yard as "Sage & Onions." What the
phrase lacked in wit was compensated for by the feeling with which
it was frequently uttered. The police officers made no effort to
dissemble the contempt they felt for a department in which they saw
a direct rebuke to themselves. Later, however, their attitude
changed, and Malcolm Sage was brought into close personal touch with
many of the best-known officers of the Criminal Investigation
Department.

He had never been known to speak disparagingly, or patronisingly, of
Scotland Yard. On the other hand, he lost no opportunity of
emphasising the fact that it was the head-quarters of the most
efficient police force in the world. He did not always agree with
its methods, which in many ways he regarded as out-of-date.

As Malcolm Sage left the room, the inspector shrugged his shoulders.
The whole thing was so obvious that, but for the presence of Sir
James Walton, he would have refused to delay the removal of the body.
The doctor had pronounced the wound self-inflicted, and even if he
had not done so, the circumstantial evidence was conclusive.

Luncheon was eaten in silence, a constrained and uncomfortable meal.
Malcolm Sage ate as he always ate when his mind was occupied, with
entire indifference as to what was on the plate, from which his eyes
never lifted.

Sir James made several ineffectual efforts to draw Dane into
conversation; but at each remark the young man started violently, as
if suddenly recalled to his surroundings. Finally Sir James desisted,
and the meal concluded in abysmal silence.

Malcolm Sage then announced that he would examine the various
members of the household, and Dane and Peters left the room.

One by one the servants entered, were interrogated, and departed.
Even the gardener and his wife, who lived at the lodge by the
main-gates, were cross-questioned.

Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, was incoherent in her voluble
anxiety to give information. The maids were almost too frightened to
speak, and from none was anything tangible extracted.

No one had any reason for being near the library late at night.

When Peters' turn came, he told his story with a clearness and
economy of words that caused Malcolm Sage mentally to register him
as a good witness. He was a superior kind of man, who had been in
his present position only some six months; but during that time he
had given every satisfaction, so much so that Mr. Challoner had
remarked to Sir James that he believed he had found a treasure.

According to Peters' account, at a quarter-past eleven on the
previous evening he had gone to the library, as was his custom, to
see if there were anything else that Mr. Challoner required before
he locked up for the night. On being told there was nothing, he had
accordingly seen to the fastenings of doors and windows and gone to
bed.

"What was Mr. Challoner doing when you entered the room?" enquired
Malcolm Sage, intent upon a design he was drawing upon the surface
of the salt.

"He was sitting at the table where I found him this morning."

"What was he actually doing?"

"I think he was checking his bankbook, sir."

"Did you notice anything strange about his manner?"

"No, sir."

"When you found that his bed had not been slept in were you
surprised?"

"Not greatly, sir," was the response. "Once before a similar thing
happened, and I heard from the other servants that on several
occasions Mr. Challoner had spent the night in the library, having
fallen asleep there."

"When you told Mr. Dane that his uncle had not slept in his room,
and that the library door was locked on the inside, what did he
say?"

"He said, 'Good Lord! Peters, something must have happened.'"

"Mr. Dane knew that on previous occasions his uncle had spent the
night in his study?" enquired Malcolm Sage, smoothing out the design
upon which he had been engaged and beginning another.

"I think so, sir," was the response.

"The pistol was the one he used at target-practice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did he keep it?"

"In the third right-hand drawer of his table, sir."

"He was a good shot, I think you said?" Malcolm Sage turned to Sir
James.

"Magnificent," he said warmly. "I have often shot with him."

"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Challoner should commit suicide?"
Malcolm Sage enquired of Peters.

"None whatever, sir; he always seemed very happy."

"He had no domestic worries?"

Peters hesitated for a moment.

"He never mentioned any to me, sir."

"You have in mind certain events that occurred during the last few
days, I take it?" said Malcolm Sage.

"That was in my mind, sir," was the response.

"You know of no way by which anyone could have got into the library
and then out again, other than through the door or the window?"

Malcolm Sage had relinquished the salt-spoon and was now
meditatively twirling a wineglass by its stem between his thumb and
first finger.

"There is no other way, sir."

"Who has access to the library in the ordinary way? Tell me the
names of everybody who is likely to go in at any time."

"Outside Mr. Challoner and Mr. Dane, there is myself, Mrs. Trennett,
the housekeeper, and Meston, the housemaid."

"No one else?"

"No one, sir, except, of course, the guests who might be staying in
the house."

"I shall want the finger-prints of all those you have named,
including yours, Sir James." Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir James
Walton. "I can then identify those of any stranger that I may find."
Sir James nodded.

"It would be quite easy for Mr. Challoner to let anyone in through
the French-windows?" enquired Malcolm Sage, turning once more to
Peters.

"Quite, sir."

"What time did Mr. Dane return last evening?"

"I think about a quarter to eleven, sir. He went straight to his
room."

"That will be all now. Tell Mr. Dane I should like to see him."

Peters noiselessly withdrew.

A few minutes later Dane entered the room. Malcolm Sage gave him a
keen, appraising look, then dropped his eyes. Dane was still acutely
nervous. His fingers moved jerkily and the corners of his mouth
twitched.

"Will you tell me what took place yesterday between you and your
uncle?" said Malcolm Sage.

Dane looked about him nervously, as an animal might who has been
trapped and seeks some means of escape.

"We had a row," he began, then paused; "a terrible row," he added,
as if to emphasise the nature of the quarrel.

"So I understand," said Malcolm Sage. "I know what it was about.
Just tell me what actually took place. In as few words as possible,
please."

"A week ago I told my uncle of my engagement, and he was very angry
when he knew that my fiancée was--was----

"A secretary," suggested Malcolm Sage, without looking up.

"Yes. He ordered me to break off the engagement at once, no matter
what it might cost."

"He referred to his pocket rather than to your feelings, I take it?"
said Malcolm Sage.

"Yes." There was a world of bitterness in the tone in which the word
was uttered. "I refused. Four days ago Sir James came and, I think,
talked things over with my uncle, who said he would see Enid, that
is, my fiancée. She came yesterday afternoon. My uncle insisted on
seeing her alone. She stayed only a few minutes."

His voice broke. He swallowed rapidly several times in succession,
struggling to regain control of himself.

"You walked back to the station with her," remarked Malcolm Sage,
"and she told you what had taken place. Your uncle had offered to
buy her off. You were furious. You said many wild and extravagant
things. Then you came back and went immediately into the library.
What took place there?"

"I don't remember what I said. I think for the time I was insane. He
had actually offered her money, notes. He had drawn them out of the
bank on purpose." Again he stopped, as if the memory of the insult
were too much for him.

"And you said?" suggested Malcolm Sage, twirling the wineglass
slowly between his thumb and finger.

"I probably said what any other man would have said under similar
circumstances." There was a quiet dignity about the way in which he
uttered these words, although his fingers still continued to twitch.

"Did he threaten you, or you him?"

"I don't remember what I said; but my uncle told me that, unless I
wrote to Enid to-day giving her up and apologised to him, he would
telephone for his lawyer and make a fresh will, cutting me out of it
entirely. I was to have until the next morning to decide, that is,
to-day."

Malcolm Sage still kept his eyes averted. He contended that to look
fixedly into the eyes of anyone undergoing interrogation was
calculated to confuse him and render the replies less helpful.

"And what would your decision have been?" he asked.

"I told him that if he gave me ten years it would be the same."

"That you would not do as he wished?"

"Certainly not."

"Until this episode you were on good terms with each other?" Malcolm
Sage had got a dessert spoon and fork to balance on the blade of a
knife.

"Yes."

"You know of no reason why your uncle should take his life?"

"None whatever."

"This episode in itself would not be sufficient to cause him to
commit suicide?"

"Certainly not. Sir James will tell you that he was a man of strong
character."

"Do you believe he shot himself?" Malcolm Sage seemed absorbed in
the rise and fall of the balancing silver.

"But for the locked door I should have said 'no.'"

"What were you proposing to do in the light of your refusal to break
the engagement?"

"I had everything packed up ready. I meant to go away this morning."

"By the way, where did your uncle bank?" enquired Malcolm Sage
casually.

"At the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank, Lewes," was the reply.

"Thank you. That will do, I think, for the present. You had better
run round to your doctor and get him to give you something to steady
your nerves," said Malcolm Sage, with eyes that had lost their
professional glint. "They are all on edge."

Dane glanced at him in surprise; but there was only a cone of
baldness visible.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I will," and he turned and left the
room. He still seemed dazed and incapable of realising what was
taking place.

Malcolm Sage rose and, walking over to the door, removed the key,
examined the wards intently, then replaced it and, opening the door,
walked across to the library.




CHAPTER III     MALCOLM SAGE'S MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS




I


Malcolm Sage found that Dawkins had completed his work, and the body
of Mr. Challoner had been removed.

Seating himself at the table, he took the automatic pistol in his
hand and deliberately removed the cartridges. Then placing the
muzzle against his right temple he turned his eyes momentarily on
Dawkins, who, having anticipated his wishes, had already adjusted
the camera. He removed the cap, replaced it, and then quickly
reversed the plate.

Pulling the trigger, Malcolm Sage allowed his head to fall forward,
his right hand, which held the pistol, dropping on the table before
him. Dawkins took another photograph.

"Now," said Malcolm Sage to Sir James. "You shoot me through the
right temple, approaching from behind. Grip my head as if you
expected me to resist."

Sir James did as he was requested, Dawkins making another exposure.

Malcolm Sage motioned Thompson to draw the curtains. Then dropping
on to his knees by the library door, he took the small mirror he had
borrowed from Miss Norman and, placing it partly beneath the door,
carefully examined the reflection by the aid of an electric torch.

When he rose it was with the air of a man who had satisfied himself
upon some important point. He then turned to Sir James.

"You might get those finger-prints," he said casually. "Get everyone
together in the dining-room. See that no one leaves it for at least
a quarter of an hour. Thompson will go with you."

"Then you think it was murder?" questioned Sir James.

"I would sooner say nothing just at the moment," was the reply.

Whilst Sir James Walton and Thompson were occupied with a room-full
of domestics, talking in whispers as if in the presence of death,
Malcolm Sage was engaged in a careful examination of the bottoms of
all the doors in the house by means of a mirror placed upwards
beneath each. He also removed the keys and gave a swift look at the
wards of each.

He moved quickly; yet without haste, as if his brain had entire
control of the situation.

One door in particular appeared to interest him, so much so that he
entered the room and proceeded to examine it with great thoroughness,
taking the utmost care to replace everything as he found it.

From the middle-drawer of the chest-of-drawers, he extracted from
under a pile of clothes a thin steel object, some five or six inches
in length, wound round with a fine, strong twine. This he slipped
into his pocket and, going down into the hall, rang up the manager
of the Lewes branch of the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank.

Passing into the library, he searched the drawers of the table at
which Mr. Challoner had been found. In one of them he discovered the
pass-book. Seating himself at the table, he proceeded to examine it
carefully. Turning to the pockets at either end, where cancelled
cheques are usually placed, he found both were empty.

When a few minutes later Sir James and Thompson entered with the
finger-prints, Malcolm Sage was seated at the table smoking, his
gaze concentrated upon the nail of the fourth finger of his right
hand. With him a contemplation of his finger-nails in general
indicated thoughtful attention; when, however, he raised the hand
and began to subject some particular finger-nail to a thorough and
elaborate examination, it generally meant the germination of some
constructive thesis.

Taking the sheets of paper from Thompson, he went through them
rapidly, then drawing a sheet of note-paper from the rack before him
he scribbled a hasty note, enclosed it with one of the fingerprints
in an envelope, which he sealed, addressed, and handed to Thompson
with instructions to see that it was delivered without delay. He
also told him to send Peters and Dane to the library.

Three minutes later Tims swung down the drive, his face beaming. He
was to drive to Scotland Yard and "never mind the poultry on the
road," as Thompson had phrased it.

"Have you the key of the safe, Mr. Dane?" enquired Malcolm Sage as
the young man entered, followed by Peters. Dane shook his head and
looked at Peters.

"Mr. Challoner always wore it on his key-chain, sir," said the
butler.

"Have you any objection to the safe being opened?" enquired Malcolm
Sage to Dane.

"None whatever."

"Then perhaps you will open it?" said Malcolm Sage, turning to Sir
James.

In the safe were found several bundles of letters and
share-certificates, and an old cash-box containing some loose
stamps; but nothing else.

Malcolm Sage dismissed Peters and Dane, saying that he would be
returning to town after dinner. In the meantime he and Sir James
strolled about the grounds, discussing the remarkable rise in the
chess-world of Capablanca, whilst Dawkins was busily occupied in a
darkened bath-room.

Dinner proved a far less sombre meal than luncheon. Malcolm Sage and
Sir James between them succeeded in placing young Dane more at his
ease. The haunted, shell-shock look left his eyes, and the twitching
disappeared from the corners of his mouth.

It was nearly nine o'clock when the distant moan of a hooter
announced to Malcolm Sage's alert ears the return of Tims. He rose
from the table and walked slowly to the door, where for some seconds
he stood with his hand upon the knob.

As the car drew up he slipped into the hall, just as Peters opened
the door.

A moment later the butler started back, his right hand seemed to fly
to his left breast pocket. At the same moment Malcolm Sage sprang
forward. There was a flash, a report, and two bodies fell at the
feet of Inspector Wensdale, of Scotland Yard, and another man
standing beside him.

In a second, however, they had thrown themselves upon the struggling
heap, and when Malcolm Sage rose to his feet it was to look down
upon Peters pinned to the floor by the inspector, with the strange
man sitting on his legs.




II


"There is no witness so sure as the camera," remarked Malcolm Sage
as he gazed from one to the other of two photographs before him, one
representing him holding an automatic pistol to his own head, and
the other in which Sir James was posing as a murderer.

"It is strange that it should be so neglected at Scotland Yard," he
added.

Silent and absorbed when engaged upon a problem, Malcolm Sage
resented speech as a sick man resents arrowroot. At other times he
seemed to find pleasure in lengthy monologues, invariably of a
professional nature.

"But we use it a lot, Mr. Sage," protested Inspector Wensdale.

"For recording the features of criminals," was the retort. "No,
Wensdale, you are obsessed by the finger-print heresy, quite
regardless of the fact that none but an amateur ever leaves such a
thing behind him, and the amateur is never difficult to trace."

He paused for a moment; but the inspector made no comment.

"The two greatest factors in the suppression of crime," continued
Malcolm Sage, "are photography and finger-prints. Both are in use at
Scotland Yard; but each in place of the other. Finger-prints are
regarded as clues, and photography is a means of identification,
whereas finger-prints are of little use except to identify past
offenders, and photography is the greatest aid to the actual tracing
of the criminal."

Malcolm Sage never failed to emphasise the importance of photography
in the detection of crime. He probably used it more than all other
investigators put together. He contended that a photographic print
established for all time what the eye could only dimly register for
the moment, with the consequent danger of forgetfulness.

As the links in a chain multiplied, it was frequently necessary to
refer to the scene of a crime, or tragedy, and then probably some
important point would crop up, which the eye had not considered of
sufficient importance to dwell upon. By then, in the case of a
murder, the body would have been removed, and everything about it
either re-ordered or obliterated.

Malcolm Sage proceeded to stuff his pipe with tobacco which he drew
from the left-hand pocket of his jacket. He had discovered that a
rubber-lined pocket was the best and safest pouch.

He picked up a third photograph and laid it beside the others. It
was a print of Mr. Challoner's head, showing, marked in ink, the
course of the bullet towards the left of the frontal bone.

"A man shooting himself," began Malcolm Sage, "places the pistol in
a position so that the muzzle is directed towards the back of the
head. On the other hand, anyone approaching his victim from behind
would have a tendency to direct the muzzle towards the front of the
head. That is why I got Dawkins to take a photograph of me holding
the pistol to my head and of you holding it from behind. These
photographs will constitute the principal evidence at the trial."

Sir James nodded. He was too interested to interrupt.

"On this enlargement of the wound," continued Malcolm Sage, "you
will see an abrasion on the side nearer the ear, as if the head had
suddenly been jerked backwards between the time of the muzzle being
placed against the temple and the actual firing of the shot."

Thompson leaned across to examine the photograph.

"If the eyes of someone sitting at a table are suddenly and
unexpectedly covered from behind, the natural instinct is to jerk
backwards so that the head may be turned to see who it is. That is
exactly what occurred with Challoner. He jerked backwards,  and the
barrel of the pistol grazed the skin and was deflected still more
towards the frontal bone."

Sir James and Thompson exchanged glances. Dawkins stood by, a look
of happiness in his eyes. His beloved camera was justifying itself
once more. Inspector Wensdale breathed heavily.

"Apart from all this, the position of the head on the table, and the
way in which the hand was holding the pistol, not to speak of the
curve of the arm, were unnatural. You get some idea of this from the
photograph that Dawkins took of me, although I could only simulate
death by relaxing the muscles. Again, the head would hardly be
likely to twist on to its side."

"The doctor ought to have seen that," said the inspector.

Another thing against the theory of suicide was that the second
joint of the first finger was pressing against the trigger. Mr.
Challoner was an expert shot, and would instinctively have used the
pad of the finger, not the second joint.

"The next step," continued Malcolm Sage, "was how could anyone get
into the room and approach Challoner without being heard or
'sensed.'"

"He must have been very much absorbed in what he was doing,"
suggested Sir James.

Malcolm Sage shook his head, and for a few seconds gazed at the
photographs before him.

"You will remember there was nothing on the table in front of him. I
shall come to that presently. It is very unlikely that a man sitting
at a table would not be conscious of someone approaching him from
behind, no matter how quietly he stepped, _unless that man's
presence in the room were quite a normal and natural thing_. That
gave me the clue to Peters. He is the only person who could be in
the library without Challoner taking any notice of him. Consequently
it was easy for him to approach his master and shoot him."

"But the locked door, sir," said Thompson.

"That is a very simple matter. An ordinary lead-pencil, with a piece
of string tied to one end, put through the ring of the key to act as
a lever, the cord being passed beneath the door, will lock any door
in existence. The pencil can then be drawn under the door. This will
show how it's done." Malcolm Sage reached across for a sheet of
paper, and drew a rough sketch.

[Illustration]

"That is why you examined the under-edge of the door?" suggested Sir
James.

Malcolm Sage nodded. "The marks of the cord were clearly defined and
reflected in the mirror. Had the key not been touched, it would have
helped."

"How?" asked Inspector Wensdale.

"By means of the string the key is turned only just to the point
where the lever falls through the hole to the floor. The fingers
would turn beyond that point, not being so delicate."

"Mr. Sage, you're a wonder," burst out the inspector.

"I then," proceeded Malcolm Sage, "examined all the other doors in
the house, and I found that of one room, which I after discovered to
be Peters', was heavily scored at the bottom. He had evidently
practised fairly extensively before putting the plan into operation.
He had also done the same thing with the library door, as there were
marks of more than one operation. Furthermore, he was wiser than to
take the risk of so clumsy a tool as a lead-pencil. He used this."

Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket the roll of twine with the thin
steel instrument down the centre. It was a canvas-needle, to the eye
of which the cord was attached.

"This was absolutely safe," he remarked. "Another thing I discovered
was that one lock, and only one lock in the house, had recently been
oiled--that of the library-door."

Sir James nodded his head several times. There was something of
self-reproach in the motion.

"Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "we come back to why a man should be
sitting at a table absorbed in gazing at nothing, and at a time when
most of the household are either in bed or preparing for bed."

"Peters said that he was checking his pass-book," suggested Sir
James.

"That is undoubtedly what he _was_ doing," continued Malcolm Sage,
"and Peters removed the passbook, put it in a drawer, first
destroying the cancelled cheques. He made a blunder in not replacing
the pass-book with something else. That was the last link in the
chain," he added.

"I don't quite see----" began Sir James.

"Perhaps you did not read of a case that was reported from New York
some eighteen months ago. It was very similar to that of Mr.
Challoner. A man was found shot through the head, the door being
locked on the inside, and a verdict of suicide was returned; but
there was absolutely no reason why he should have taken his life.

"What actually happened was that Mr. Challoner went to his bank to
draw five hundred pounds with which he hoped to bribe his nephew's
fiancée. He trusted to the temptation of the actual money rather
than a cheque. When he was at the bank the manager once more asked
him to return his pass-book, which had not been balanced for several
months. He was very dilatory in such matters."

"That is true," said Dane, speaking for the first time.

"That evening he proceeded to compare it with his cheque-book. I
suspect that Peters had been forging cheques and he saw here what
would lead to discovery. Furthermore, there was a considerable sum
of money in the safe, and the quarrel between uncle and nephew
to divert suspicion. This, however, was mere conjecture--that
trouser-pocket photo, Dawkins," said Malcolm Sage, turning to the
photographer, who handed it across to him.

"Now notice the position of those keys. They are put in head
foremost, and do not reach the bottom of the pocket. They had
obviously been taken away and replaced in the pocket as Challoner
sat there. Had he gone to the safe himself and walked back to his
chair, the position of the keys would have been quite different."

Instinctively each man felt in his trousers pocket, and found in his
own bunch of keys a verification of the statement.

"The whole scheme was too calculated and deliberate for an amateur,"
said Malcolm Sage, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on to a brass
ashtray. "That is what prompted me to get the fingerprints of Peters,
so that I might send them to Scotland Yard to see if anything was
known of him there. The result you have seen."

"We've been on the look-out for him for more than a year," said
Inspector Wensdale. "The New York police are rather interested in
him about a forgery stunt that took place there some time ago."

"I am confident that when Challoner's affairs are gone into there
will be certain cheques which it will be difficult to explain.

"Then, again, there was the electric light," proceeded Malcolm Sage.
"A man about to blow out his brains would certainly not walk across
the room, switch off the light, and then find his way back to the
table."

"That's true enough," said Inspector Wensdale.

"On the other hand, a murderer, who has to stand at a door for at
least some seconds, would not risk leaving on the light, which would
attract the attention of anyone who might by chance be in the hall,
or on the stairs."

Inspector Wensdale caught Thompson's left eye, which deliberately
closed and then re-opened. There was a world of meaning in the
movement.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't get you down on a fool's errand, Sage,"
said Sir James, rising. "I wonder what the local inspector will
think."

"He won't," remarked Malcolm Sage; "that is why he assumed it was
suicide."

"Did you suspect Peters was armed?" enquired Sir James.

"I saw the pistol under his left armpit," said Malcolm Sage. "It's
well known with American gunmen as a most convenient place for quick
drawing."

"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Sage, he'd have got me," said
Inspector Wensdale.

"There'll be a heavy car-full for Tims," remarked Malcolm Sage, as
he walked towards the door.




CHAPTER IV     THE SURREY CATTLE-MAIMING MYSTERY



I


"Disguise," Malcolm Sage had once re-marked, "is the chief
characteristic of the detective of fiction. In actual practise it
is rarely possible. I am a case in point. No one but a builder,
or an engineer, could disguise the shape of a head like mine;" as
he spoke he had stroked the top of his head, which rose above his
strongly-marked brows like a down-covered cone.

He maintained that a disguise can always be identified, although not
necessarily penetrated. This in itself would be sufficient to defeat
the end of the disguised man by rendering him an object of suspicion.
Few men can disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how clever
they might be with false beards, grease-paint and wigs.

In this Malcolm Sage was a bitter disappointment to William Johnson,
the office junior. His conception of the sleuth-hound had been
tinctured by the vivid fiction with which he beguiled his spare time.

In the heart of William Johnson there were three great emotions: his
hero-worship of Malcolm Sage, his romantic devotion to Gladys Norman,
and his wholesome fear of the robustious humour of Tims.

In his more imaginative moments he would create a world in which he
was the recognised colleague of Malcolm Sage, the avowed admirer of
Miss Norman, and the austere employer of Tims--chauffeurs never took
liberties with the hair of their employers, no matter how knut-like
it might be worn.

It was with the object of making sure of the first turret of his
castle in Spain, that William Johnson devoted himself to the earnest
study of what he conceived to be his future profession.

He read voraciously all the detective stories and police-reports he
came across. Every moment he could snatch from his official duties
he devoted to some scrap of paper, booklet, or magazine. He strove
to cultivate his reasoning powers. Never did a prospective client
enter the Malcolm Sage Bureau without automatically setting into
operation William Johnson's mental induction-coil. With eyes that
were covertly keen, he would examine the visitor as he sat waiting
for the two sharp buzzes on the private telephone which indicated
that Malcolm Sage was at liberty.

It mattered little to William Johnson that error seemed to dog his
footsteps; that he had "deduced" a famous pussyfoot admiral as a
comedian addicted to drink; a lord, with a ten century lineage, as a
man selling something or other; a Cabinet Minister as a company
promoter in the worst sense of the term; nothing could damp his zeal.

Malcolm Sage's "cases" he studied as intimately as he could from his
position as junior; but they disappointed him. They seemed lacking
in that element of drama he found so enthralling in the literature
he read and the films he saw.

Malcolm Sage would enter the office as Malcolm Sage, and leave it as
Malcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul's
Cathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities of
disguise.

William Johnson longed for some decrepit and dirty old man or woman
to enter the Bureau, selling boot-laces or bananas and, on being
peremptorily ordered out, to see the figure suddenly straighten
itself, and hear his Chief's well-known voice remark, "So you don't
recognise me, Johnson--good." There was romance.

He yearned for a "property-room," where executive members of the
staff would disguise themselves beyond recognition. In his more
imaginative moments he saw come out from that mysterious room a
full-blooded Kaffir, whereas he knew that only Thompson had entered.

He would have liked to see Miss Norman shed her pretty brunetteness
and reappear as an old apple-woman, who besought him to buy of her
wares. He even saw himself being transformed into a hooligan, or a
smart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and
"swish."

In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, he
could achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling the
highly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put his
theories to the test.

One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on her
way to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by a
youth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer Charlie
Chaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice he
enquired his way to the Strand.

"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth's
the matter?"

A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of William
Johnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.

"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued down
Villiers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tears
she had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attempt
at disguise had proved so tragic a failure.

Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently--although for
days William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations of
Damocles.

From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almost
worship.

But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initial
failure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his own
ideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses,
false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the inner
recesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quite
playing the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mystery
or bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.

It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a soft
hat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels and
silk socks.

Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "William
Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.
William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters
that would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.
William Johnson as he appears."

With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau would
occupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performance
of his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloured
detective stories from which he drew his inspiration.

From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of Miss
Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of
London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away
again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.

From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either by
peremptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or by
the entry of a client.

One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of a
naval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purple
jowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door,
followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clerical
calling.

"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.

"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon the
clergyman, in whose appearance there was something that caused
William Johnson to like him on the spot.

"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell him
that General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." The
tone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.

At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelled
door. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merely
turned as if changing front to receive a new foe.

"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am his
secretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general's
companion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yet
firm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.

This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she too
liked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out his
cheeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion also
seated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.

William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed,
ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; but
really in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.

He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that they
were father and son, and from the boots of the younger that he
was low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on the
telephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across the
office in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage there
were two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, and
unnecessary words.

"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelled
door to Malcolm Sage's private room.

With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned his
visitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyes
had registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glance
embraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying at
the temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth that
was, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almost
lean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the older
man. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage's
mental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing the
William Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.

"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head and
gold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons on
parade.

Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze down
at his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the first
appraising glance he rarely looked at a client.

"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. Geoffrey
Callice."

Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sage
had heard.

Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock the
last man in the world who should have been brought into contact with
Malcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keep
Malcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce the
number of his embarrassing resignations.

"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded the
general. "It's inconceivable that in this----"

"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage,
fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."

Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to take
himself in hand, continued:

"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about in
an unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as he
jumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.

"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details,"
said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."

"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would you
be if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as
"Dammit Hackblock."

Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence,
proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sage
defiance.

"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was found
mutilated in a terrible manner----"  Mr. Callice paused; there was
something in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. The
gentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouth
was set in a stern, severe line.

"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes once
more, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the Pons
Asinorum into a church.

In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested great
self-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the story of the
latest outrage. How when found that morning the mare was still alive,
of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator had
disappeared, leaving no trace.

"Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes have
haunted me ever since. They----" His voice broke, and he proceeded
once more to blow his nose violently.

Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare put
out of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings and
insisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demand
that something be done.

"Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.

"I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago we
formed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood at
night in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir John
remembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as he
was not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to come
on here and place the matter in your hands."

"This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as he
proceeded to add a graveyard to the church.

"Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenly
realising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You have
interested yourself in the affair?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."

"The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locally
we have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out night
after night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.

"The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after a
slight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was the
throb of indignation in his voice.

"You have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency.
"We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."

"And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense,"
burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.

"I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage,
evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; but
later----" He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression by
emphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn John
had called it "incipient Bolshevism."

"Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! there
won't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going on
for two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard----"

"If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as he
proceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard having
proved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night with
pistols under our pillows."

"Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.

"Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient and
highly-organised police force in the world," was the quiet reply.

"But, dammit! if they're so clever why don't they put a stop to this
torturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I've
shown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to see
that fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and I
told him so."

"Who is Hinds?" Malcolm Sage addressed the question to Mr. Callice.

"He used to be Sir John's head gamekeeper----"

"And I discharged him," exploded the general. "I'll shoot a poacher
or his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffed
out his cheeks aggressively.

"Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrolling
the preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir John
discovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught across
the hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave of
feeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.

"It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "The
man's a brute. Now will you----?"

"I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take up
the enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best I
can promise."

"But----" began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sage
as he moved towards the door.

"Dammit! I don't care what it costs," he spluttered explosively.
"It'll be worth five hundred pounds to the man who catches the
scoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.

"I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There was
dismissal in his tone.

With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towards
the door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, and
then followed the general, who, with a final glare at William
Johnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street,
convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscription
it would go rapidly to the devil.

For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume of
press-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.

Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused the
newspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected and
pasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined to
devote time to the affair.

Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapid
succession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly Gladys
Norman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remark
that if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to life
again.

"Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes still
on the book before him.

When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made it
difficult for anyone but his own staff to understand his
requirements.

Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, William
Johnson placed _Whitaker's Almanack_ on the table, then he in turn
disappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied the
pages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closed
the book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, the
signal that he was through to the number required. Drawing the
pedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

"That Inspector Wensdale?--Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about the
cattle-maiming business.--I've just heard of it.--I've not decided
yet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spot
of each outrage indicated, and the date.--To-morrow will do.--Yes,
come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing
another client.




II


"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from the
map before him.

"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said
Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst out
explosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready made
for 'em."

"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He never
could resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints as
clues instead of means of identification.

"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector,
confidentially. "Last time _The Daily Telegram_ went for us
because----"

"You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage,
who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

"They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. He
was too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maiming
business that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referring
to Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Now
the general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with the
Commissioner."

For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

"Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

"I've given up theorising," was the dour reply.

In response to a further question as to what had been done, the
inspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had been
scoured after each maiming, and how, night after night, watchers had
been posted throughout the district, but without result.

"I have had men out night and day," continued the inspector gloomily.
"He's a clever devil whoever he is. It's my opinion the man's a
lunatic," he added.

Malcolm Sage looked up slowly.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"His cunning, for one thing," was the reply. "Then it's so senseless.
No," he added with conviction, "he's no more an ordinary man than
Jack-the-Ripper was."

He went on to give details of his enquiries among those living in
the district. There was absolutely nothing to attach even the
remotest suspicion to any particular person. Rewards had been
offered for information; but all without producing the slightest
evidence or clue.

"This man Hinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking about for more
matches.

"Oh! the general's got him on the brain. Absolutely nothing in it.
I've turned him inside out. Why, even the Deputy Commissioner had a
go at him, and if he can get nothing out of a man, there's nothing
to get out."

"Well," said Malcolm Sage rising, "keep the fact to yourself that I
am interested. I suppose, if necessary, you could arrange for twenty
or thirty men to run down there?" he queried.

"The whole blessed Yard if you like, Mr. Sage," was the feeling
reply.

"We'll leave it at that for the present then. By the way, if you
happen to think you see me in the neighbourhood you needn't remember
that we are acquainted."

The inspector nodded comprehendingly and, with a heart lightened
somewhat of its burden, he departed. He had an almost child-like
faith in Malcolm Sage.

For half an hour Malcolm Sage sat engrossed in the map of the scene
of the maimings. On it were a number of red-ink crosses with figures
beneath. In the left-hand bottom corner was a list of the various
outrages, with the date and the time, as near as could be
approximated, against each.

The numbers in the bottom corner corresponded with those beneath the
crosses.

From time to time he referred to the two copies of _Whitaker's
Almanack_ open before him, and made notes upon the writing-pad at
his side. Finally he ruled a square upon the map in red ink, and
then drew two lines diagonally from corner to corner. Then without
looking up from the map, he pressed one of the buttons of the
private-telephone. "Tims," he said through the mouthpiece.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage's chauffeur was standing opposite
his Chief's table, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Tims."

"Yessir."

"A day of rest."

"Yessir!"

"We are going out to Hempdon, near Selford," Malcolm Sage continued,
pointing to the map. Tims stepped forward and bent over to identify
the spot. "The car will break down. It will take you or any other
mechanic two hours to put it right."

"Yessir," said Tims, straightening himself.

"You understand," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him sharply, "you
_or any other mechanic?"_

"Yessir," repeated Tims, his face sphinx-like in its lack of
expression.

He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been a
chauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw between
his teeth, hissing lullabies to horses.

"I shall be ready at nine," said Malcolm Sage, and with another
"Yessir" Tims turned to go.

"And Tims."

"Yessir." He about-faced smartly on his right heel. "You might
apologise for me to Mrs. Tims for depriving her of you on Sunday.
Take her out to dinner on Monday and charge it to me."

"Thank you, sir, very much, sir," said Tims, his face expressionless.

"That is all, Tims, thank you."

Tims turned once more and left the room. As he walked towards the
outer door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, made
a frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, without
change of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its run
on the morrow.

Malcolm Sage's staff knew that when "the Chief" was what Tims called
"chatty" he was beginning to see light, so Tims whistled loudly at
his work: for he, like all his colleagues, was pleased when "the
Chief" saw reason to be pleased.

The following morning, as they trooped out of church, the
inhabitants of Hempdon were greatly interested in the break-down of
a large car, which seemed to defy the best efforts of the chauffeur
to coax into movement. The owner drank cider at the Spotted
Woodpigeon and talked pleasantly with the villagers, who, on
learning that he had never even heard of the Surrey cattle-maimings,
were at great pains to pour information and theories into his
receptive ear.

The episode quite dwarfed the remarkable sermon preached by Mr.
Callice, in which he exhorted his congregation to band themselves
together to track down him who was maiming and torturing God's
creatures, and defying the Master's merciful teaching.

It was Tom Hinds, assisted by a boy scout, who conducted Malcolm
Sage to the scene of the latest outrage. It was Hinds who described
the position of the mare when she was discovered, and it was he who
pocketed two half-crowns as the car moved off Londonwards.

That evening Malcolm Sage sat long and late at his table, engrossed
in the map that Inspector Wensdale had sent him.

Finally he subjected to a thorough and exhaustive examination the
thumb-nail of his right hand. It was as if he saw in its polished
surface the tablets of destiny.

The next morning he wrote a letter that subsequently caused Sir John
Hackblock to explode into a torrent of abuse of detectives in
general and one investigator in particular. It stated in a few words
that, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, Malcolm
Sage would not be able to undertake the enquiry with which Sir John
Hackblock had honoured him until the end of the month following. He
hoped, however, to communicate further with his client soon after
the 23rd of that month.




CHAPTER V     INSPECTOR WENSDALE IS SURPRISED




I


Nearly a month had elapsed, and the cattle-maiming mystery seemed as
far off solution as ever. The neighbourhood in which the crimes had
been committed had once more settled down to its usual occupations,
and Scotland Yard had followed suit.

Sir John Hackblock had written to the Chief Commissioner and a
question had been asked in the House.

Inspector Wensdale's colleagues had learned that it was dangerous to
mention in his presence the words "cattle" or "maiming." The
inspector knew that the affair was referred to as "Wensdale's
Waterloo," and his failure to throw light on the mystery was
beginning to tell upon his nerves.

For three weeks he had received no word from Malcolm Sage. One
morning on his arrival at Scotland Yard he was given a telephone
message asking him to call round at the Bureau during the day.

"Nothing new?" queried Malcolm Sage ten minutes later, as the
inspector was shown into his room by Thompson.

The inspector shook a gloomy head and dropped his heavy frame into a
chair.

Malcolm Sage indicated with a nod that Thompson was to remain.

"Can you borrow a couple of covered government lorries?" queried
Malcolm Sage.

"A couple of hundred if necessary," said the inspector dully.

"Two will be enough," was the dry rejoinder. "Now listen carefully,
Wensdale. I want you to have fifty men housed some ten miles away
from Hempdon on the afternoon of the 22nd. Select men who have done
scouting, ex-boy scouts, for preference. Don't choose any with bald
heads or with very light hair. See that they are wearing dark
clothes and dark shirts and, above all, no white collars. Take with
you a good supply of burnt cork such as is used by nigger
minstrels."

Malcolm Sage paused, and for the fraction of a second there was a
curious fluttering at the corners of his mouth.

Inspector Wensdale was sitting bolt upright in his chair, gazing at
Malcolm Sage as if he had been requested to supply two lorry-loads
of archangels.

"It will be moonlight, and caps might fall off," explained Malcolm
Sage. "You cannot very well ask a man to black his head. Above all,"
he continued evenly, "be sure you give no indication to anyone why
you want the men, and tell them not to talk. You follow me?" he
queried.

"Yes," said the inspector, "I--I follow."

"Don't go down Hempdon way again, and tell no one in the
neighbourhood; _no one_, you understand, is to know anything about
it. Don't tell the general, for instance."

"Him!" There was a world of hatred and contempt in the inspector's
voice. Then he glanced a little oddly at Malcolm Sage.

Malcolm Sage went on to elaborate his instructions. The men were to
be divided into two parties, one to form a line north of the scene
of the last outrage, and the other to be spread over a particular
zone some three miles the other side of Hempdon. They were to
blacken their faces and hands, and observe great care to show no
light colouring in connection with their clothing. Thus they would
be indistinguishable from their surroundings.

"You will go with one lot," said Malcolm Sage to the inspector, "and
my man Finlay with the other. Thompson and I will be somewhere in
the neighbourhood. You will be given a pass-word for purposes of
identification. You understand?"

"I think so," said the inspector, in a tone which was suggestive
that he was very far from understanding.

"I'll have everything typed out for you, and scale-plans of where
you are to post your men. Above all, don't take anyone into your
confidence."

Inspector Wensdale nodded and looked across at Thompson, as if to
assure himself that after all it really was not some huge joke.

"If nothing happens on the 22nd, we shall carry-on the second, third,
and fourth nights. In all probability we shall catch our man on the
23rd."

"Then you know who it is?" spluttered the inspector in astonishment.

"I hope to know on the 23rd," said Malcolm Sage dryly, as he rose
and walked towards the door. Directness was his strong point. Taking
the hint, Inspector Wensdale rose also and, with the air of a man
not yet quite awake, passed out of the room.

"You had better see him to-morrow, Thompson," said Malcolm Sage,
"and explain exactly how the men are to be disposed. Make it clear
that none must show themselves. If they actually see anyone in the
act, they must track him, not try to take him."

Thompson nodded his head comprehendingly.

"Make it clear that they are there to watch; but I doubt if they'll
see anything," he added.




II


At eleven o'clock on the night of July the 23rd, two motor lorries
glided slowly along some three miles distant from one another. From
their interiors silent forms dropped noiselessly on to the moon-white
road. A moment later, slipping into the shadow of the hedge, they
disappeared. All the previous night men had watched and waited; but
nothing had happened. Now they were to try again.

Overhead the moon was climbing the sky, struggling against masses of
cloud that from time to time swung themselves across her disc.

In the village of Hempdon all was quiet. The last light had been
extinguished, the last dog had sent forth a final challenging bark,
hoping that some neighbouring rival would answer and justify a
volume of canine protest.

On the western side of the highway, and well behind the houses, two
figures were standing in the shadow cast by a large oak. Their faces
and hands were blackened, rendering them indistinguishable from
their surroundings.

One wore a shade over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a precaution
against the moonlight being reflected on the lenses.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. They waited.
Presently one gripped the arm of the other and pointed. At the back
of the house immediately-opposite there was a slight movement in the
shade cast by a hedge. Then the line readjusted itself and the
shadow vanished. A moment later it reappeared in a patch of
moonlight, looking like a large dog.

Stooping low Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed the dog-like form,
themselves taking advantage of every patch of shadow and cover that
offered.

The mysterious form moved along deliberately and without haste, now
disappearing in the shadow cast by some tree or bush, now
reappearing once more on the other side.

It was obviously taking advantage of everything that tended to
conceal its movements.

Once it disappeared altogether, and for five minutes the two
trackers lay on their faces and waited.

"Making sure he's not being followed," whispered Thompson, and
Malcolm Sage nodded.

Presently the figure appeared once more and, as if reassured,
continued its slow and deliberate way.

Once a dog barked, a short, sharp bark of uncertainty. Again there
was no sign of the figure for some minutes. Then it moved out from
the surrounding shadows and continued its stealthy progress.

Having reached the outskirts of the village, it continued its
crouching course along the western side of the hedge flanking the
roadside.

Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed under the shadow of a hedge
running parallel.

For a mile the slow and laborious tracking continued. Suddenly
Malcolm Sage stopped. In the field on their right two horses were
grazing in the moonlight. It was the scene of the tragedy of the
month previous!

For some minutes they waited expectantly. Suddenly Malcolm Sage
gripped Thompson's arm and pointed. From under the hedge a dark
patch was moving slowely towards the nearer of the two animals. It
was apparently the form of a man, face downward, wriggling along
inch by inch without bending a limb.

"Get across. Cut off his retreat," whispered Sage. "Look out for the
knife."

Thompson nodded and slid away under cover of the hedge separating
the field in which the horses were from that along which the
watchers had just passed.

Slowly the form approached its quarry. Once the horse lifted its
head as though scenting danger; but the figure was approaching
upwind.

Suddenly it raised itself, appearing once more like a large dog.
Then with a swift, panther-like movement it momentarily disappeared
in the shadow cast by the horse.

There was a muffled scream and a gurgle, as the animal collapsed,
then silence.

A minute later the form seemed to detach itself from the carcase and
wriggled along towards the hedge, a dark patch upon the grass.

Malcolm Sage was already half-way through the second field, keeping
well under the shelter of the hedge. He reached a spot where the
intersecting hedge joined that running parallel with the highroad.
There was a hole sufficiently large for a man to crawl through from
one field to the other. By this Malcolm Sage waited, a life-preserver
in his hand.

At the sound of the snapping of a twig, he gripped his weapon; a
moment later a round, dark shape appeared through the hole in the
hedge. Without hesitating Malcolm Sage struck.

There was a sound, half grunt, half sob, and Malcolm Sage was on his
feet gazing down at the strangest creature he had ever encountered.

Clothed in green, its face and hands smeared with some pigment of
the same colour, lay the figure of a tall man. Round the waist was a
belt from which was suspended in its case a Gurkha's kukri.

Malcolm Sage bent down to unbuckle the belt. He turned the man on
his back. As he did so he saw that in his hand was a small,
collapsible tin cup covered with blood, which also stained his lips
and chin, and dripped from his hands, whilst the front of his
clothing was stained in dark patches.

"I wonder who he is," muttered Thompson, as he gazed down at the
strange figure.

"Locally he is known as the Rev. Geoffrey Callice," remarked Malcolm
Sage quietly.

And Thompson whistled.




III


"And that damned scoundrel has been fooling us for two years." Sir
John Hackblock glared at Inspector Wensdale as if it were he who was
responsible for the deception.

They were seated smoking in Sir John's library after a particularly
early breakfast.

"I always said it was the work of a madman," said the inspector in
self-defence.

"Callice is no more mad than I am," snapped Sir John. "I wish I were
going to try him," he added grimly. "The scoundrel! To think----"
His indignation choked him.

"He is not mad in the accepted sense," said Malcolm Sage as he
sucked meditatively at his pipe. "I should say that it is a case of
race-memory."

"Race-memory! Dammit! what's that?" Sir John Hackblock snapped out
the words in his best parade-ground manner. He was more purple than
ever about the jowl, and it was obvious that he was prepared to
disagree with everyone and everything. As Lady Hackblock and her
domestics would have recognised without difficulty, Sir John was
angry.

"How the devil did you spot the brute?" he demanded, as Malcolm Sage
did not reply immediately.

"Race-memory," he remarked, ignoring the question, "is to man what
instinct is to animals; it defies analysis or explanation."

Sir John stared; but it was Inspector Wensdale who spoke.

"But how did you manage to fix the date, Mr. Sage?" he enquired.

"By the previous outrages," was the reply.

"The previous outrages!" cried Sir John. "Dammit! how did they help
you?"

"They all took place about the time the moon was at the full. There
were twenty-eight in all." Malcolm Sage felt in his pocket and drew
out a paper. "These are the figures."

In his eagerness Sir John snatched the paper from his hand, and with
Inspector Wensdale looking over his shoulder, read:

   Day before full moon   .   .   .   .  4
   Full moon     .    .   .   .   .   . 15
   Day after     .    .   .   .   .   .  7
   Second day after   .   .   .   .   .  2
                                        --
       Total 28  .    .   .   .   .   . 28

"Well, I'm damned!" exclaimed Sir John, looking up from the paper at
Malcolm Sage, as if he had solved the riddle of the universe.

The inspector's only comment was a quick indrawing of breath.

Sir John continued to stare at Malcolm Sage, the paper still held in
his hand.

"That made matters comparatively easy," continued Malcolm Sage. "The
outrages were clearly not acts of revenge upon any particular
person; for they involved nine different owners. They were obviously
the work of someone subject to a mania, or obsession, which gripped
him when the moon was at the full."

"But how did you fix the actual spot?" burst out Inspector Wensdale
excitedly.

"Each of the previous acts had been either in a diametrically
opposite direction from that immediately preceding it, or
practically on the same spot. For instance, the first three were
north, east, and south of Hempdon, in the order named. Then the
cunning of the perpetrator prompted him to commit a fourth, not to
the west; but to the south, within a few yards of the previous act.
The criminal argued, probably subconsciously, that he would be
expected to complete the square."

"But what made you fix on Hempdon as the headquarters of the
blackguard?" enquired Sir John.

"That was easy," remarked Malcolm Sage, polishing the thumb-nail of
his left hand upon the palm of his right.

"Easy!" The exclamation burst involuntarily from the inspector.

"You supplied me with a large scale-map showing the exact spot where
each of the previous maimings had taken place. I drew a square to
embrace the whole. Lines drawn diagonally from corner to corner gave
me the centre of gravity."

"But----" began the inspector.

Ignoring the interruption Malcolm Sage continued.

"A man committing a series of crimes from a given spot was bound to
spread his operations over a fairly wide area in order to minimise
the chance of discovery. The longer the period and the larger the
number of comes, the greater the chance of his being located
somewhere near the centre of his activities."

"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Sir John for the second time. Then
suddenly turning to Inspector Wensdale, "Dammit!" he exploded, "why
didn't you think of that?"

"There was, of course, the chance of his striking in another
direction," continued Malcolm Sage, digging into the bowl of his
pipe with a penknife, "so I placed the men in such a way that if he
did so he was bound to be seen."

Inspector Wensdale continued to gaze at him, eager to hear more.

"But what was that you said about race-memory?" Sir John had quieted
down considerably since Malcolm Sage had begun his explanation.

"I should describe it as a harking back to an earlier phase. It is
to the mind what atavism is to the body. In breeding, for
instance"--Malcolm Sage looked across to Sir John--"you find that
an offspring will manifest characteristics, or a taint, that is not
to be found in either sire or dam."

Sir John nodded.

"Well, race-memory is the same thing in regard to the mental plane,
a sort of subconscious wave of reminiscence. In Callice's case it
was in all probability the memory of some sacrificial rite of his
ancestors centuries ago."

"A case of heredity."

"Broadly speaking, yes. At the full moon this particular tribe,
whose act Callice has reproduced, was in the habit of slaughtering
some beast, or beasts, and drinking the blood, probably with the
idea of absorbing their strength or their courage. Possibly the
surroundings at Hempdon were similar to those where the act of
sacrifice was committed in the past.

"It must be remembered that Callice was an ascetic, and consequently
highly subjective. Therefore when the wave of reminiscence is
taken in conjunction with the surroundings, the full moon and
his high state of subjectivity, it is easy to see that material
considerations might easily be obliterated. That is why I watched
the back entrance to his lodgings."

"And all the time we were telling him our plans," murmured the
inspector half to himself.

"Yes, and he would go out hunting himself," said Sir John. "Damn
funny, I call it. Anyway, he'll get seven years at least."

"When he awakens he will remember nothing about it. You cannot
punish a man for a subconscious crime."

Sir John snorted indignantly; but Inspector Wensdale nodded his head
slowly and regretfully.

"Anyway, I owe you five hundred pounds," said Sir John to Malcolm
Sage; "and, dammit! it's worth it," he added.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders as he rose to go.

"I was sorry to have to hit him," he said regretfully, "but I was
afraid of that knife. A man can do a lot of damage with a thing like
that. That's why I told you not to let your men attempt to take him,
Wensdale."

"How did you know what sort of knife it was?" asked the inspector.

"Oh! I motored down here, and the car broke down. Incidentally I
made a lot of acquaintances, including Callice's patrol-leader, a
bright lad. He told me a lot of things about Callice and his ways. A
remarkable product the boy scout," he added. "Kipling calls him 'the
friend of all the world.'"

Sir John looked across at Inspector Wensdale, who was strongly
tempted to wink.

"Don't think too harshly of Callice," said Malcolm Sage as he shook
hands with Sir John. "It might easily have been you or I, had we
been a little purer in mind and thought."

And with that he passed out of the room with Inspector Wensdale
followed by Sir John Hackblock, who was endeavouring to interpret
the exact meaning of the remark.

"They said he was a clever devil," he muttered as he returned to the
library after seeing his guests off, "and, dammit! they were right."




CHAPTER VI     THE STOLEN ADMIRALTY MEMORANDUM




I


"Well," cried Tims, one Saturday night, as he pushed open the
kitchen door of the little flat he occupied over the garage. "How's
the cook, the stove, and the supper?"

"I'm busy," said Mrs. Tims, a little, fair woman, with blue eyes, an
impertinent nose, and the inspiration of neatness in her dress, as
she altered the position of a saucepan on the stove and put two
plates into the oven to warm.

This was the invariable greeting between husband and wife. Tims went
up behind her, gripped her elbows to her side, and kissed her
noisily.

"I told you I was busy," she said.

"You did, Emmelina," he responded. "I heard you say so, and how's
his Nibs?"

The last remark was addressed to an object that was crawling towards
him with incoherent cries and gurgles of delight. Stooping down,
Tims picked up his eighteen-months-old son and held him aloft,
chuckling and mouthing his glee.

"You'll drop him one of these days," said Mrs. Tims, "and then
there'll be a pretty hullaballoo."

"Well, he's fat enough to bounce," was the retort. "Ain't you,
Jimmy?"

Neither Tims nor Mrs. Tims seemed to be conscious that without
variations these same remarks had been made night after night, week
after week, month after month.

"How's Mr. Sage?" was the question with which Mrs. Tims always
followed the reference to the bouncing of Jimmy.

"Like Johnny Walker, still going strong," glibly came the reply,
just as it came every other night. "He was asking about you to-day,"
added Tims.

"About me?" Mrs. Tims turned, all attention, her cooking for the
time forgotten.

"Yes, wanted to know when I was going to divorce you."

"Don't be silly, Jim," she cried. "What did he say, really now?" she
added as she turned once more to the stove.

"Oh! he just asked if you were well," replied Tims, more interested
in demonstrating with the person of his son how an aeroplane left
the ground than in his wife's question.

"Anything else?" enquired Mrs. Tims, prodding a potato with a fork
to see if it was done.

Tims was not deceived by the casual tone in which the question was
asked. He was wont to say that, if his wife wanted his back teeth,
she would get them.

"Nothing, my dear, only to ask if his Nibs was flourishin'," and
with a gurgle of delight the aeroplane soared towards the ceiling.

Mrs. Tims had not forgotten the time when Malcolm Sage visited her
several times when she was ill with pneumonia. She never tired of
telling her friends of his wonderful knowledge of household affairs.
He had talked to her of cooking, of childish ailments, of shopping,
in a way that had amazed her. His knowledge seemed universal. He had
explained to her among other things how cracknel biscuits were made
and why croup was so swift in its action.

Tims vowed that the Chief had done her more good than the doctor,
and from that day Malcolm Sage had occupied chief place in Mrs.
Tims's valhalla.

"Quaint sort o' chap, the Chief," Tims would remark sometimes in
connection with some professional episode.

"Pity you're not as quaint," would flash back the retort from Mrs.
Tims, whose conception of loyalty was more literal than that of her
husband.

Supper finished and his Nibs put to bed, Tims proceeded to enjoy his
pipe and evening paper, whilst Mrs. Tims got out her sewing. From
time to time Tims's eyes would wander over towards the telephone in
the corner.

Finally he folded up the paper, and proceeded to knock out the ashes
from his pipe preparatory to going to bed. His eyes took a last look
at the telephone just as Mrs. Tims glanced up.

"Don't sit there watching that telephone," she cried, "anyone would
think you were wanting----"

"Brrrrrrr--brrrrrrr--brrrrrr," went the bell.

"Now perhaps you're happy," cried Mrs. Tims as he rose to answer the
call, whilst she put on the kettle to make hot coffee to fill the
thermos flasks without which she never allowed the car to go out at
night. It was her tribute to "the Chief."




II


In his more expansive moments Malcolm Sage would liken himself to a
general practitioner in a diseased-infected district. It is true
that there was no speaking-tube, with its terrifying whistle, a few
feet from his head; but the telephone by his bedside was always
liable to arouse him from sleep at any hour of the night.

As Tims had folded up his newspaper with a view to bed, Malcolm Sage
was removing his collar before the mirror on his dressing-table,
when his telephone bell rang. Rogers, his man, looked
interrogatingly at his master, who, shaking his head, passed over to
the instrument and took up the receiver.

"Yes, this is Malcolm Sage--Speaking--Yes." Then for a few minutes
he listened with an impassive face. "I'll be off within ten
minutes--The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford--I understand."

While he was speaking, Rogers, a little sallow-faced man with
fish-like eyes and expressionless face, had moved over to the other
telephone and was droning in a monotonous, uninflected voice, "Chief
wants car in five minutes."

It was part of Malcolm Sage's method to train his subordinates to
realise the importance of intelligent and logical inference.

Returning to the dressing-table, Malcolm Sage took up another collar,
slipped a tie between the fold, and proceeded to put it on.

As he did so he gave instructions to Rogers, who, note-book in hand,
and with an expression of indifference that seemed to say "Kismet,"
silently recorded his instructions.

"My address will be The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford. Be on
the look-out for messages."

Without a word Rogers closed the book and, picking up a suit-case,
which was always ready for emergencies, he left the room. Two
minutes later Malcolm Sage followed and, without a word, entered the
closed car that had just drawn up before his flat in the Adelphi.

Rogers returned to the flat, switched the telephone on to his own
room, and prepared himself for the night, whilst Malcolm Sage,
having eaten a biscuit and drunk some of Mrs. Tims's hot coffee, lay
back to sleep as the car rushed along the Portsmouth road.




III


In the library at The Towers three men were seated, their faces
lined and drawn as if some great misfortune had suddenly descended
upon them; yet their senses were alert. They were listening.

"He ought to be here any minute now," said Mr. Llewellyn John, the
Prime Minister, taking out his watch for the hundredth time.

Sir Lyster Grayne, First Lord of the Admiralty, shook his head.

"He should do it in an hour," said Lord Beamdale, the Secretary of
War, "if he's got a man who knows the road."

"Sage is sure----" began Sir Lyster; then he stopped abruptly, and
turned in the direction of the further window.

A soft tapping as of a finger-nail upon a pane of glass was clearly
distinguishable. It ceased for a few seconds, recommenced, then
ceased again.

Mr. Llewellyn John looked first at Sir Lyster and then on towards
where Lord Beamdale sat, heavy of frame and impassive of feature.

Sir Lyster rose and walked quickly over to the window. As he
approached the tapping recommenced. Swinging back the curtain he
disappeared into the embrasure.

The others heard the sound of the window being raised and then
closed again. A moment later Malcolm Sage appeared, followed by Sir
Lyster, who once more drew the curtain.

At the sight of Malcolm Sage, Mr. Llewellyn John's features relaxed
from their drawn, tense expression. A look of relief flashed
momentarily into Lord Beamdale's fish-like eyes.

"Thank God you've come, Sage!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with a sigh
of relief as he grasped Malcolm Sage's hand as if it had been a
lifebelt and he a drowning man. "I think you have met Lord
Beamdale," he added.

Malcolm Sage bowed to the War Minister, then with great deliberation
removed his overcoat, carefully folded it, and placed it upon a
chair, laying his cap on top. He then selected a chair at the table
that gave him a clear view of the faces of the three Ministers, and
sat down.

"Why did you come to the window?" enquired Sir Lyster, as he resumed
his own seat. "Did you know this was the library?"

"I saw a crack of light between the curtains," replied Malcolm Sage.
"It may be desirable that no one should know I have been here," he
added.

"Something terrible has happened, Sage," broke in the Prime Minister,
his voice shaking with excitement. He had with difficulty contained
himself whilst Malcolm Sage was taking off his overcoat and
explaining his reason for entering by the window. "It's--it's----"
His voice broke.

"Perhaps Sir Lyster will tell me, or Lord Beamdale," suggested
Malcolm Sage, looking from one to the other.

Lord Beamdale shook his head.

"Just a bare outline, Sir Lyster," said Malcolm Sage, spreading out
his fingers before him.

Slowly, deliberately, and with perfect self-possession, Sir Lyster
explained what had happened.

"The Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale came down with me on Thursday
night to spend the weekend," he said. "Incidentally we were to
discuss a very important matter connected with this country's er--
foreign policy." The hesitation was only momentary. "Lord Beamdale
brought with him a document of an extremely private nature. This I
had sent to him earlier in the week for consideration and comment.

"If that document were to get to a certain Embassy in London no one
can foretell the calamitous results. It might even result in another
war, if not now certainly later. It was, I should explain, of a
private and confidential nature, and consequently quite frankly
expressed."

"And you must remember----" began Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly.

"One moment, sir," said Malcolm Sage quietly, without looking up
from an absorbed contemplation of a bronze letter-weight fashioned
in the form of a sphinx.

Mr. Llewellyn John sank back into his chair, and Sir Lyster resumed.

"Just over an hour and a half ago, that is to say soon after eleven
o'clock, it was discovered that the document in question was missing,
and in its place had been substituted a number of sheets of blank
paper."

"Unless it's found, Sage," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, jumping up from
his chair in his excitement, "the consequences are too awful to
contemplate."

For a few seconds he strode up and down the room, then returning to
his chair, sank back into its comfortable depths.

"Where was the document kept?" enquired Malcolm Sage, his long,
sensitive fingers stroking the back of the sphinx.

"In the safe," replied Sir Lyster, indicating with a nod a small
safe let into the wall.

"You are in the habit of using it for valuable documents?" queried
Malcolm Sage.

"As a matter of fact very seldom. It is mostly empty," was the reply.

"Why?"

"I have a larger safe in my dressing-room, in which I keep my papers.
During the day I occasionally use this to save going up and down
stairs."

"Where do you keep the key?"

"When there is anything in the safe I always carry it about with
me."

"And at other times?"

"Sometimes in a drawer in my writing-table," said Sir Lyster; "but
generally I have it on me."

"When was the document put into the safe?"

"At a quarter to eight to-night, just as the second dressing-gong
was sounding."

"And you yourself put it in, locked the door, and have retained the
key ever since?" Malcolm Sage had exhausted the interest of the
sphinx and was now drawing diagrams with his forefinger upon the
morocco surface of the table.

Sir Lyster nodded.

"I put the key in the pocket of my evening vest when I changed," he
said. "After the other guests had retired, the Prime Minister raised
a point that necessitated reference to the document itself. It was
then I discovered the substitution."

"But for that circumstance the safe would not have been opened until
when?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"Late to-night, when I should have transferred the packet to the
safe in my dressing-room."

"Would you have examined the contents?"

"No. It is my rule to cut adrift from official matters from
dinner-time on Saturday until after breakfast on Monday. It was only
in deference to the Prime Minister's particular wish that we referred
to the document to-night."

"I take it that the rule you mention is known to your guests and
servants?"

"Certainly."

"There is no doubt that it was the document itself that you put in
the safe?"

"None; the Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale saw me do it."

"No doubt whatever," corroborated Mr. Llewellyn John, whilst Lord
Beamdale wagged his head like a mandarin.

"Does anyone else know that it is missing?" asked Malcolm Sage after
a short pause.

Sir Lyster shook his head.

"Only we three; and, of course, the thief," he added.

Malcolm Sage nodded. He had tired of the diagrams, and now sat
stroking the back of his head.

"Has anyone left the house since the discovery; that is, as far as
you know?" he queried at length.

"No one," said Sir Lyster.

"The servants, of course, have access to this room?"

"Yes; but only Walters, my butler, is likely to come here in the
evening, except, of course, my secretary."

"Where does he dine?"

"Miss Blair," corrected Sir Lyster, "always takes her meals in her
own sitting-room, where she works. It is situated at the back of the
house on the ground floor."

Again Malcolm Sage was silent, this time for a longer period.

"So far as you know, then," he said at length, addressing Sir Lyster,
"only three people in the house were acquainted with the existence
of the document; you, the Prime Minister, and Lord Beamdale."

Sir Lyster inclined his head.

"You are certain of that?" Malcolm Sage looked up swiftly and keenly.
"Your secretary and Lady Grayne, for instance, they knew nothing
about it?"

"Nothing; of that I am absolutely certain," replied Sir Lyster
coldly.

"And the nature of the document?" enquired Malcolm Sa'ge.

Sir Lyster looked across at Mr. Llewellyn John, who turned
interrogatingly to Lord Beamdale.

"I am afraid it is of too private a nature to----" he hesitated.

"If you require me to trace something," said Malcolm Sage evenly,
"you must at least tell me what that something is."

"It is a document which----" began Lord Beamdale, then he, too,
paused.

"But, surely, Sage," broke in Mr. Llewellyn John, "is it not
necessary to know the actual contents?"

"If you had lost something and would not tell me whether it was a
dog or a diamond, would you expect me to find it?"

"But----" began Mr. Llewellyn John.

"I'm afraid we are wasting time, gentlemen," said Malcolm Sage,
rising. "I would suggest Scotland Yard. The official police must
work under any handicap imposed. I regret that I am unable to do
so."

He walked across to the chair where lay his cap and coat.

"Now, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully, "you mustn't let us
down, you really mustn't." Then turning to Sir Lyster, he said, "I
can see his point. If he doesn't know the nature of the document, he
cannot form a theory as to who is likely to have taken it. Perhaps
under the circumstances, Grayne, we might take Sage into our
confidence; at least to such extent as he thinks necessary."

Sir Lyster made no response, whilst Lord Beamdale, whose economy in
words had earned for him the sobriquet of "Lord Dumbeam," sat with
impassive face.

"Perhaps I can help you," said Malcolm Sage, still standing by the
chair on which lay his cap and coat. "At the end of every great war
the Plans Departments of the Admiralty and the War Office are busy
preparing for the next war. I suggest that this document was the
Admiralty draft of a plan of operations to be put into force in the
event of war occurring between this country and an extremely
friendly power. It was submitted to the War Office for criticism and
comment as far as land-operations were concerned. Another power,
unfriendly to the friendly power, would find in this document a very
valuable red-herring to draw across the path of its own
perplexities."

"Good heavens!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, starting upright in his
chair. "How on earth did you know?"

"It seems fairly obvious," said Malcolm Sage, as he returned to his
chair and resumed his stroking of the sphinx's back. "Who else knew
of the existence of the document?" he enquired.

"No one outside the Admiralty and the War----" Sir Lyster stopped
suddenly.

From the corridor, apparently just outside the library door, came
the sound of a suppressed scream, followed by a bump against the
woodwork.

Rising and moving swiftly across the room, Sir Lyster threw open the
door, revealing a gap of darkness into which a moment later slid two
figures, a pretty, fair-haired girl and a wizened little Japanese
with large round spectacles and an automatic smile.

"I'm so sorry, Sir Lysier," faltered the girl, as she stepped
timidly into the room, "but I was frightened. Someone had switched
off the lights and I ran into----" She turned to the Japanese, who
stood deprecating and nervous on the threshold.

"I lose my passage," he said, baring his teeth still further; "I go
to find cigarette-case of my master. He leave it in beelyard-room. I
go----"

With a motion of his hand, Sir Lyster dismissed the man, who slipped
away as if relieved at getting off so lightly.

"You are up late, Miss Blair," he said coolly, turning to the girl.

"I'm so sorry," she said; "but Lady Grayne gave me some letters, and
there was so much copying for you that----" She paused, then added
nervously, "I didn't know it was so late."

"You had better go to bed, now," said Sir Lyster.

With a charming smile she passed out, Sir Lyster closing the door
behind her. As he turned into the room his eye caught sight of the
chair in which Malcolm Sage had been sitting.

"Where is Mr. Sage?" He looked from Mr. Llewellyn John to Lord
Beamdale.

As he spoke Malcolm Sage appeared from the embrasure of the window
through which he had entered, and where he had taken cover as Sir
Lyster rose to open the door.

"You see, Sage is not supposed to be here," explained Mr. Llewellyn
John.

"Your secretary has an expensive taste in perfume," remarked Malcolm
Sage casually, as he resumed his seat. "It often characterises an
intensely emotional nature," he added musingly.

"Emotional nature!" repeated Sir Lyster. "As a matter of fact she is
extremely practical and self-possessed. You were saying----" he
concluded with the air of a man who dismisses a trifling subject in
favour of one of some importance.

"Diplomatists should be trained physiognomists," murmured Malcolm
Sage. "A man's mouth rarely lies, a woman's never."

Sir Lyster stared.

"Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "I should like to know who is staying
here."

Sir Lyster proceeded to give some details of the guests and servants.
The domestic staff comprised twenty-one, and none had been in Sir
Lyster's employ for less than three years. They were all excellent
servants, of irreproachable character, who had come to him with good
references. Seventeen of the twenty-one lived in the house. There
were also four lady's-maids and five men-servants attached to the
guests. Among the men-servants was Sir Jeffrey Trawler's Japanese
valet.

There was something in Sir Lyster's voice as he mentioned this fact
that caused Malcolm Sage to look up at him sharply.

"The man you have just seen," Sir Lyster explained. "He has been the
cause of some little difficulty in the servants'-hall. They object
to sitting down to meals with a Chinaman, as they call him.

"He seems intelligent?" remarked Malcolm Sage casually.

"On the contrary, he is an extremely stupid creature," was the reply.
"He is continually losing himself. Only yesterday morning I myself
found him wandering about the corridor leading to my own bedroom.
Walters has also mentioned the matter to me."

Sir Lyster then passed on to the guests. They comprised Mrs. Selton,
an aunt of Sir Lyster; Sir Jeffrey and Lady Trawlor, old friends of
their hostess; Lady Whyndale and her two daughters. There were also
Mr. Gerald Nash, M. P., and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Winnington, old
friends of Sir Lyster and Lady Grayne.

"Later, I may require a list of the guests," said Malcolm Sage, when
Sir Lyster had completed his account. "You said, I think, that the
key of the safe was sometimes left in an accessible place?"

"Yes, in a drawer."

"So that anyone having access to the room could easily have taken a
wax impression."

"Sir Lyster flushed slightly.

"There is no one----" he began.

"There is always a potential someone," corrected Malcolm Sage,
raising his eyes suddenly and fixing them full upon Sir Lyster.

"The question is, Sage," broke in Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully,
"what are we to do?"

"I should first like to see the inside of the safe and the dummy
packet," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "No, I will open it myself if
you will give me the key," he added, as Sir Lyster rose and moved
over to the safe.

Taking the key, Malcolm Sage kneeled before the safe door and, by
the light of an electric torch, surveyed the whole of the surface
with keen-sighted eyes. Then placing the key in the lock he turned
it, and swung back the door, revealing a long official envelope as
the sole contents. This he examined carefully without touching it,
his head thrust inside the safe.

"Is this the same envelope as that in which the document was
enclosed?" he enquired, without looking round.

The three men had risen and were grouped behind Malcolm Sage,
watching him with keen interest.

"It's the same kind of envelope, but----" began

Sir Lyster, when Lord Beamdale interrupted.

"It's the envelope itself," he said. "I noticed that the right-hand
top corner was bent in rather a peculiar manner."

Malcolm Sage rose and, taking out the envelope, carefully examined
the damaged corner, which was bent and slightly torn.

"Yes, it's the same," cried Mr. Llewellyn John. "I remember tearing
it myself when putting in the document."

"How many leaves of paper were there?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Eight, I think," replied Sir Lyster.

"Nine," corrected Lord Beamdale. "There was a leaf in front blank
but for the words, 'Plans Department.'"

"Have you another document from the same Department?" enquired
Malcolm Sage of Sir Lyster.

"Several."

"I should like to see one."

Sir Lyster left the room, and Malcolm Sage removed the contents of
the envelope. Carefully counting nine leaves of blank white foolscap,
he bent down over the paper, with his face almost touching it.

When Sir Lyster re-entered with another document in his hand Malcolm
Sage took it from him and proceeded to subject it to an equally
close scrutiny, holding up to the light each sheet in succession.

"I suppose, Sir Lyster, you don't by any chance use scent?" enquired
Malcolm Sage without looking up.

"Mr. Sage!" Sir Lyster was on his dignity.

"I see you don't," was Malcolm Sage's calm comment as he resumed his
examination of the dummy document. Replacing it in the envelope, he
returned it to the safe, closed the door, locked it, and put the key
in his pocket.

"Well! what do you make of it?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John eagerly.

"We shall have to take the Postmaster-general into our confidence."

"Woldington!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John in astonishment. "Why."

Sir Lyster looked surprised, whilst Lord Beamdale appeared almost
interested.

"Because we shall probably require his help."

"How?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Well, it's rather dangerous to tamper with His Majesty's mails
without the connivance of St. Martins-le-Grand," was the dry retort.

"But----" began Mr. Llewellyn John, when suddenly he stopped short.

Malcolm Sage had walked over to where his overcoat lay, and was
deliberately getting into it.

"You're not going, Mr. Sage?" Sir Lyster's granite-like control
seemed momentarily to forsake him. "What do you advise us to do?"

"Get some sleep," was the quiet reply.

"But aren't you going to search for----?" He paused as Malcolm Sage
turned and looked full at him.

"A search would involve the very publicity you are anxious to
avoid," was the reply.

"But----" began Mr. Llewellyn John, when Malcolm Sage interrupted
him.

"The only effective search would be to surround the house with
police, and allow each occupant to pass through the cordon after
having been stripped. The house would then have to be gone through;
carpets and boards pulled up; mattresses ripped open; chairs----"

"I agree with Mr. Sage," said Sir Lyster, looking across at the
Prime Minister coldly.

"Had I been a magazine detective I should have known exactly where
to find the missing document," said Malcolm Sage. "As I am not"--he
turned to Sir Lyster--"it will be necessary for you to leave a note
for your butler telling him that you have dropped somewhere about
the house the key of this safe, and instructing him to have a
thorough search made for it. You might casually mention the loss at
breakfast, and refer to an important document inside the safe which
you must have on Monday morning. Perhaps the Prime Minister will
suggest telephoning to town for a man to come down to force the safe
should the key not be found."

Malcolm Sage paused. The others were gazing at him with keen
interest.

"Leave the note unfolded in a conspicuous place where anyone can see
it," he continued.

"I'll put it on the hall-table," said Sir Lyster.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"It is desirable that you should all appear to be in the best of
spirits." There was a fluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage's
mouth, as he lifted his eyes for a second to the almost lugubrious
countenance of Lord Beamdale. "Under no circumstances refer to the
robbery, even amongst yourselves. Try to forget it."

"But how will that help?" enquired Mr. Llewellyn John, whose nature
rendered him singularly ill-adapted to a walking-on part.

"I will ask you, sir," said Malcolm Sage, turning to him, "to give
me a letter to Mr. Woldington, asking him to do as I request. I will
give him the details."

"But why is it necessary to tell him?" demanded Sir Lyster.

"That I will explain to you to-morrow. That will be Monday,"
explained Malcolm Sage, "earlier if possible. A few lines will do,"
he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John.

"I suppose we must," said the Prime Minister, looking from Sir
Lyster to Lord Beamdale.

"I hope to call before lunch," said Malcolm Sage, "but as Mr. Le
Sage from the Foreign Office. You will refuse to discuss official
matters until Monday. I shall probably ask you to introduce me to
everyone you can. It may happen that I shall disappear suddenly."

"But cannot you be a little less mysterious?" said Sir Lyster, with
a touch of asperity in his voice.

"There is nothing mysterious," replied Malcolm Sage. "It seems quite
obvious. Everything depends upon how clever the thief is." He looked
up suddenly, his gaze passing from one to another of the bewildered
Ministers.

"It's by no means obvious to me," cried Mr. Llewellyn John,
complainingly.

"By the way, Sir Lyster, how many cars have you in the garage?"
enquired Malcolm Sage. "In case we want them," he added.

"I have two, and there are"--he paused for a moment--"five others,"
he added; "seven in all."

"Any carriages, or dog-carts?"

"No. We have no horses."

"Bicycles?"

"A few of the servants have them," replied Sir Lyster, a little
impatiently.

"The bicycles are also kept in the garage, I take it?"

"They are." This time there was no mistaking the note of irritation
in Sir Lyster's voice.

"There may be several messengers from Whitehall to-morrow," said
Malcolm Sage, after a pause. "Please keep them waiting until they
show signs of impatience. It is important. Whatever happens here, it
would be better not to acquaint the police--_whatever happens_," he
added with emphasis. "And now, sir"--he turned to Mr. Llewellyn
John--"I should like that note to the Postmaster-general."

Mr. Llewellyn John sat down reluctantly at a table and wrote a note.

"But suppose the thief hands the document to an accomplice?" said
Sir Lyster presently, with something like emotion in his voice.

"That's exactly what I am supposing," was Malcolm Sage's reply and,
taking the note that Mr. Llewellyn John held out to him, he placed
it in his breast pocket, buttoned up his overcoat, and walked across
to the window through which he had entered. With one hand upon the
curtain he turned.

"If I call you may notice that I have acquired a slight foreign
accent," he said, and with that he slipped behind the curtain. A
moment later the sound was heard of the window being quietly opened
and then shut again.

"Well, I'm damned!" cried Lord Beamdale, and for the moment Mr.
Llewelyln John and Sir Lyster forgot their surprise at Malcolm
Sage's actions in their astonishment at their colleague's remark.




CHAPTER VII     THE OUTRAGE AT THE GARAGE




I


When Mr. Walters descended the broad staircase of The Towers on the
Sunday morning he found two things to disturb him--Sir Lyster's note
on the hall-table, and the Japanese valet "lost" in the conservatory.

He read the one with attention, and rebuked the other with acrimony.
Having failed to find the missing key himself, he proceeded to the
housekeeper's room, and poured into the large and receptive ear of
Mrs. Eames the story of his woes.

"And this a Sunday too," the housekeeper was just remarking, in a
fat, comfortable voice, when Richards, the chauffeur, burst
unceremoniously into the room.

"Someone's taken the pencils from all the magnetos," he shouted
angrily, his face moist with heat and lubricant.

"Is that your only excuse for bursting into a lady's room without
knocking?" enquired Mr. Walters, with an austere dignity he had
copied directly from Sir Lyster. "If you apply to me presently I
will lend you a pencil. In the meantime----"

"But it's burglars. They've broken into the garage and taken the
pencils from every magneto, every blinkin' one," he added by way of
emphasis.

At the mention of the word "burglars," Mr. Walters's professional
composure of feature momentarily forsook him, and his jaw dropped.
Recovering himself instantly, however, he hastened out of the room,
closely followed by Richards, leaving Mrs. Eames speechless, the
oval cameo locket heaving up and down upon her indignant black-silk
bosom. A man had sworn in her presence and had departed unrebuked.

On reaching the garage Mr. Walters gazed vaguely about him. He was
entirely unversed in mechanics, and Richards persisted in pouring
forth technicalities that bewildered him. The chauffeur also cursed
loudly and with inspiration, until reminded that it was Sunday, when
he lowered his voice, at the same time increasing the density of his
language.

Mr. Walters was frankly disappointed. There, was no outward sign of
burglars. At length he turned interrogatingly to Richards.

"Just a-goin' to tune 'em up I was," explained Richards for the
twentieth time, "when I found the bloomin' engines had gone whonky,
then----"

"Found the engines had gone what?" enquired Mr. Walters.

"Whonky, dud, na-poo," explained Richards illuminatingly, whilst Mr.
Walters gazed at him icily. "Then in comes Davies," he continued,
nodding in the direction of a little round-faced man, with
"chauffeur" written on every inch of him "and 'e couldn't get 'is
blinkin' 'arp to 'urn neither. Then we starts a-lookin' round, when
lo and _be_'old! what do we find? Some streamin', saturated son of
sin an' whiskers 'as pinched the ruddy pencils out of the scarlet
magnetos."

"The float's gone from my carburettor."

The voice came from a long, lean man who appeared suddenly out of
the shadows at the far-end of the garage.

Without a word Richards and Davies dashed each to a car. A minute
later two yells announced that the floats from their carburettors
also had disappeared.

Later Richards told how that morning he had found the door of the
garage unfastened, although he was certain that he had locked it the
night before.

This was sufficient for Mr. Walters. Fleeing from the bewildering
flood of technicalities and profanity of the three chauffeurs, he
made his way direct to Sir Lyster's room. Here he told his tale, and
was instructed instantly to telephone to the police.

At the telephone further trouble awaited him. He could get no reply
from the exchange. He tried the private wire to the Admiralty; but
with no better result.

He accordingly reported the matter to Sir Lyster, who was by then
with Lord Beamdale in the library. It was the Minister of War who
reminded his host of Malcolm Sage's strange request that whatever
happened the police were not to be communicated with.

"But Sage could not have anticipated this--this monstrous outrage,"
protested Sir Lyster, white with anger. He had already imperiously
put aside Lord Beamdale's suggestion that the whole affair might be
a joke.

"Still, better do as he said," was the rejoinder and, as later Mr.
Llewellyn John concurred, Sir Lyster decided to await the arrival of
Malcolm Sage before taking further steps.

One by one the guests drifted down to breakfast, went out to the
garage to see for themselves, and then returned to discuss the
affair over coffee and kidneys, tea and toast.

It subsequently transpired that without exception the cars had been
entirely put out of commission. From each the pencil had been
removed from the magneto, and the float from the carburettor. From
the bicycles the pedals had been taken away, with the exception of
those belonging to Miss Blair and one of the housemaids, the only
two ladies' machines in the place.

"A veritable Claude Duval," someone remarked; but this brought
little consolation to the owners of the wrecked cars. It was a fine
day, too, which added to their sense of hardship.

As Sir Lyster left the breakfast-room he encountered Miss Blair
crossing the hall. She looked very fresh and pretty, with a demure,
almost childlike expression of feature. Her cheeks were flushed with
health and exercise.

"Would you like me to cycle over to Odford to the police?" she
enquired. "My machine is quite all right. I have just been for a
spin."

"No--er--not at present, thank you, Miss Blair," said Sir Lyster, a
little embarrassed at having to refuse to do the obvious thing. He
passed across the hall into the library, and Miss Blair, having
almost fallen over the Japanese valet, "lost" in a corridor leading
to the billiard-room, went out to condole with Richards and tell
him of a strange epidemic of mishaps that seemed to have descended
upon the neighbourhood. She herself had passed a motor-cycle, two
push-bicycles, and a Ford car, all disabled by the roadside.

All that morning the Prime Minister, Sir Lyster, and Lord Beamdale
waited and wondered. Finding the strain of trying to look cheerful
too much for them, they shut themselves up in the library on the
plea of pressing official business; this, in spite of Sir Lyster's
well-known week-end rule.

Hour after hour passed; yet not only did Malcolm Sage fail to put in
an appearance, but nothing was heard or seen of the promised bogus
official messengers.

At luncheon more than one guest remarked upon the distrait and
absent-minded appearance of the three Ministers, and deduced from
the circumstance a grave political crisis.

The afternoon dragged its leaden course. Throughout the house there
was an atmosphere of unrest. Among themselves the guests complained
because no action had been taken to track down the despoiler of
their cars. Walters had rendered the lives of the domestic staff
intolerable by insisting upon search for the missing key being made
in the most unlikely and inaccessible places, although in his own
mind he was convinced that it had been stolen by the errant Japanese.

In the library sat the three Ministers, for the most part gazing
either at one another or at nothing in particular. They were waiting
for something to happen: none knew quite what.

Dinner passed, a dreary meal; the ladies withdrew to the
drawing-room; but still the heavy atmosphere of foreboding remained.
It was nearly half-past nine when Walters entered and murmured
something in Sir Lyster's ear.

An eager light sprang into Mr. Llewellyn John's eyes as the First
Lord rose, made his apologies, and left the room. It was only by the
exercise of great self-control that the Prime Minister refrained
from jumping up and bolting after him.

Two minutes later Walters again entered the dining-room, with a
request that Mr. Llewellyn John and Lord Beamdale would join Sir
Lyster in the library.

As Walters threw open the library-door, they found Malcolm Sage
seated at the table, his fingers spread out before him, whilst Sir
Lyster stood by the fireplace.

"Ask Miss Blair if she will come here to take down an important
letter, Walters," said Sir Lyster.

"Well?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, as soon as Walters had closed the
door behind him. "Have you got it?"

"The document is now in a strong-room at the General Post Office,"
said Malcolm Sage without looking up. "I thought it would be safer
there."

"Thank God!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, collapsing into a chair.

Malcolm Sage glanced across at him and half rose.

"I'm all right, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John; "but coming after
this awful day of anxiety, the news was almost too much for me."

"Who took it from the safe then?" enquired Sir Lyster. "I----" he
stopped short as the door opened, and Miss Blair entered, notebook
in hand, looking very dainty in a simple grey frock, relieved by a
bunch of clove carnations at the waist. Closing the door behind her,
she hesitated for a moment, a smile upon her moist, slightly-parted
lips.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Blair," began Sir Lyster, "but Mr.
Sage----" he paused.

"It was Miss Blair who removed the document from the safe," said
Malcolm Sage quietly, his eyes bent upon the finger-tips of his
right hand.

"Miss Blair!" cried Sir Lyster, his hand dropping from the
mantelpiece to his side.

For the fraction of a second the girl stood just inside the door;
then as the significance of Malcolm Sage's words dawned upon her,
the smile froze upon her lips, the blood ebbed from her face,
leaving it drawn and grey, and the notebook dropped from her fingers.
She staggered forward a few steps, then, clutching wildly at the
edge of the table, she swayed from side to side. With an obvious
effort she steadied herself, her gaze fixed upon her accuser.

Slowly Malcolm Sage raised his eyes, cold, grey, inflexible, and
fixed them upon the terrified girl.

The three Ministers appeared not yet to have realised the true
nature of the drama being enacted before them.

"Miss Blair," said Malcolm Sage quietly, "what are your relations
with Paul Cressit?"

Twice she essayed to speak, but no sound came.

"I--I--er--know him," she faltered at length.
"I wondered," said Malcolm Sage slowly.

"What does this mean, Mr. Sage?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"I will tell you," said Malcolm Sage, whilst Lord Beamdale placed a
chair into which Miss Blair collapsed. "Last night whilst you were
at dinner Miss Blair opened your safe with a duplicate key made from
a wax impression. She abstracted a valuable document, putting in its
place some sheets of blank paper." He paused.

"Go on," almost gasped Mr. Llewellyn John.

"She took the document to her room and hid it, a little uncertain as
to how she should get it to her accomplice. This morning she saw Sir
Lyster's note on the hall-table, and emboldened by the thought that
the theft had not been discovered, she cycled out to Odford and
posted the document to Paul Cressit at his chambers in Jermyn
Street." Again Malcolm Sage paused and drew from his pocket a note.

"In the envelope was enclosed this note." He handed to Mr. Llewellyn
John a half sheet of paper on which was typed:

"Paul, dearest, I have done it. I will ring you up to-morrow. I
shall ask for Tuesday off. You will keep your promise, dear, and
save me, won't you? If you don't I shall kill myself.--G."

"Miss Blair," said Sir Lyster coldly, "what have you to say?"

"N-nothing," she faltered, striving to moisten her grey lips.

"If you will tell the truth," said Malcolm Sage, "you still have a
chance. If not"; he paused significantly.

She gulped noisily, striving to regain her power of speech.

"You--you promise?" She looked across at Mr. Llewellyn John.

"Whatever Mr. Sage says we endorse," he replied gravely.

"Both of us?" she repeated.

"Both," said Malcolm Sage.

"I--I love him," she moaned; then after a pause she added: "It was
to save the disgrace. He promised, he swore he would if I did it."

"Swore he would do what?" said Malcolm Sage.

"Marry me."

Malcolm Sage raised his eyes to Sir Lyster, who was standing
implacable and merciless.

The girl's head had fallen forward upon the table, and her shoulders
were heaving convulsively.

Rising, Malcolm Sage walked across and placed his hand upon her arm.

"It will be better for everybody if you will try and control
yourself," he said gently, "and above all tell us the truth."

As if surprised at the gentleness of his tone, she slowly raised her
drawn face and looked at him in wonder.

"Now listen to me," continued Malcolm Sage, drawing up a chair and
seating himself beside her, "and tell me if I am wrong. Whilst you
were acting as Sir Lyster's secretary you met Paul Cressit at the
Admiralty, and you were attracted to him."

She nodded, with a quick indrawing of her breath.

"He made violent love to you and you succumbed. Later you took him
into your confidence in regard to a certain matter and he promised
to marry you. He put you off from time to time by various excuses.
You were almost distracted at the thought of the disgrace. He
persuaded you to take a wax impression of Sir Lyster's key, on the
chance of it one day being useful."

Again she nodded, whilst the three men listened as if hypnotised.

"Finally he swore that he would marry you if you would steal this
document, and he showed you a special license. Am I right?"

She nodded again, and then buried her head in her arms.

"I suppose," said Malcolm Sage quietly, "he did not happen to
mention that he was already married?"

"Married!" She started up, her eyes blazing. "It isn't true, oh! it
isn't true," she cried.

"I'm afraid it is," said Malcolm Sage, with feeling in his voice.

With a moan of despair her head fell forward upon the table, and
hard dry sobs shook her frail body.

"Miss Blair," said Malcolm Sage presently, when she had somewhat
regained her self-control, "my advice to you is to write out a full
confession and bring it to me at my office to-morrow morning. It is
your only chance: and now you must go to your room."

He rose, assisted her to her feet, and led her to the door, which he
closed behind her.

"That I think concludes the enquiry," he said, as he walked over to
the fireplace and, leaning against the mantelpiece, he began to fill
his pipe. "Unless," he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John, "you
would like to see Cressit."

The Prime Minister looked across at Sir Lyster and then at Lord
Beamdale. Both shook their heads.

"What we should like, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "is a little
information as to what has been happening."

With great deliberation Malcolm Sage proceeded to light his pipe.
When it was drawing to his entire satisfaction, he turned to Mr.
Llewellyn John and, with the suspicion of a fluttering at the
corners of his mouth, remarked:

"I hope you have not been inconvenienced about the telephone."

"We could get no reply from the exchange," said Sir Lyster, "and the
wire to the Admiralty is out of order."

"I had to disconnect you after I left this morning," said Malcolm
Sage quietly. "My chauffeur swarmed up one of the standards.
Incidentally he wrecked an almost new pair of breeches."

"They'll have to go in the Naval Estimates," cried Mr. Llewellyn
John, who was feeling almost jovial now the tension of the past
twenty-four hours had been removed.

"From the first," proceeded Malcolm Sage, "it was obvious that this
theft was planned either at the Admiralty or at the War Office."

"That is absurd!" cried Sir Lyster with heat, whilst Lord Beamdale
leaned forward, his usually apathetic expression of indifference
giving place to one of keen interest.

"I accepted the assurance that only three people in this house knew
of the existence of the document," Malcolm Sage proceeded, as if
there had been no interruption. "There was no object in any of those
three persons stealing that to which they had ready access."

Lord Beamdale nodded his agreement with the reasoning.

"Therefore," continued Malcolm Sage, "the theft must have been
planned by someone who knew about the document before it came here,
and furthermore knew that it was to be here at a certain time. To
confirm this hypothesis we have the remarkable circumstances that
the blank paper substituted for the original document was, in
quality and the number of sheets, identical with that of the
document itself."

"Good," ejaculated Lord Beamdale, himself a keen mathematician.

Mr. Llewellyn John and Sir Lyster exchanged glances.

"It was almost, but not quite, obvious that the exchange had been
effected by a woman."

"How obvious?" enquired Mr. Llewellyn John.

"'Few women pass unperfumed to the grave,'" quoted Malcolm Sage. "I
think it was Craddock who said that," he added, and Mr. Llewellyn
John made a mental note of the phrase.

"The handle of the safe door was corrugated, and the lacquer had
worn off, leaving it rough to the touch. When I kneeled down before
the safe it was not to examine the metal work, but to see if the
thief had left a scent."

"A scent?" repeated Sir Lyster.

"On the handle of the door there was a distinct trace of perfume,
very slight, but I have a keen sense of smell, although a great
smoker. On the document itself there was also evidence of a rather
expensive perfume, not unlike that used by Miss Blair. Furthermore,
it was bent in a rather peculiar manner, which might have resulted
from its being carried in the belt of a woman's frock. It might, of
course, have been mere chance," he added; "but the envelope did not
show a corresponding bend."

Again Lord Beamdale nodded appreciatively.

"Although several people have had an opportunity of taking a wax
impression of the key, the most likely were Miss Blair and Walters--
that, however, was a side issue."

"How?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Because primarily we were concerned with making the criminal
himself or herself divulge the secret."

"That's why you would not allow the loss to be made known," broke in
Mr. Llewellyn John.

"The thief," continued Malcolm Sage, with a slight inclination of
his head, "would in all probability seize the first safe opportunity
of getting rid of the plunder."

"But did you not suspect the Japanese?" broke in Lord Beamdale.

"For the moment I ruled him out," said Malcolm Sage, "as I could not
see how it was possible for him to know about the existence of the
document in question, and furthermore, as he had been in the house
less than two days, there was no time for him to get a duplicate
key."

"What did you do then?" queried Sir Lyster.

"I motored back to town, broke in upon the Postmaster-general's
first sleep, set on foot enquiries at the Admiralty and War Office,
in the meantime arranging for The Towers to be carefully watched."
Malcolm Sage paused for a moment; then as none of his hearers spoke
he continued:

"I had a number of people in the neighbourhood--motorists, cyclists,
and pedestrians. No one could have left the house and grounds
without being seen.

"Miss Blair found the morning irresistible, and took an early spin
on her bicycle to Odford, where she posted a packet in a pillar-box
situated in a street that was apparently quite empty."

"And you secured it?" enquired Mr. Lewellyn John, leaning forward
eagerly.

"I'm afraid I quite spoilt the local postmaster's Sunday by
requesting that a pillar-box should be specially cleared, and
producing an authority from the Postmaster-general. After he had
telegraphed to head-quarters and received a reply confirming the
letter, he reluctantly acquiesced."

"And it was addressed to this man Cressit?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Yes. He is a temporary staff-clerk in the Plans Department.
Incidentally he is something of a Don Juan, and the cost of living
has increased considerably, as you know, sir," he added, turning to
the Prime Minister.

Mr. Llewellyn John smiled wanly. It was his political "cross," this
cost-of-living problem.

"And what shall we do with him?" enquired Sir Lyster. "The
scoundrel," he added.

"I have almost done with him as a matter of fact," said Malcolm Sage.

"Done with him?" exclaimed Lord Beamdale.

"I sent him a telegram in Miss Blair's name to be at Odford Station
to-night at seven: then I kidnapped him."

"Good heavens, Sage I What do you mean?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John,
with visions of the Habeas Corpus Act and possible questions in the
House, which he hated.

"We managed to get him to enter my car, and then we went through
him--that is a phrase from the crook-world. We found upon him the
marriage certificate, and later I induced him to confess. I am now
going to take him back to my office, secure his finger-prints and
physical measurements, which will be of interest at Scotland Yard."

"But we are not going to prosecute," said Mr. Llewellyn John
anxiously.

"Mr. Paul Cressit will have forty-eight hours in which to leave the
country," said Malcolm Sage evenly. "He will not return, because
Scotland Yard will see that he does not do so. There will probably
be an application to you, sir," Malcolm Sage continued, turning to
Mr. Llewellyn John, "to confirm what I tell them."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John. "I congratulate you, Sage.
You have done wonders."

"But I failed to understand your saying that you would be here this
morning," said Sir Lyster, "and under an assumed name with----"

"A foreign accent," suggested Malcolm Sage. "The thief might have
been an old hand at the game, and too clever to fall into a rather
obvious trap. In that case I might have been forced, as a foreigner,
to salute the hands of all the ladies in the house. I learnt to
click my heels years ago in Germany." Again there was a suspicious
movement at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth.

"But----" began Sir Lyster.

"To identify the scent?" broke in Mr. Llewellyn John.

Malcolm Sage inclined his read slightly.

"The Foreign Office messengers?" queried Lord Beamdale.

"I decided that pedestrians and cyclists would do as well. I merely
wanted the house watched. There were quite a number of casualties to
cars and bicycles in the neighbourhood," he added dryly.

"But why did you cut us off from the telephone?" enquired Mr.
Llewellyn John.

"The accomplice might have got through, and I could afford to take
no risks."

"Well, you have done splendidly, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John
heartily, "and we are all greatly obliged. By the way, there's
another little problem awaiting you. Someone broke into the garage
last night and wrecked all the cars and bicycles----"

"Except two," said Malcolm Sage.

"Then you've heard." Mr. Llewellyn John looked at him in surprise.

"The man who did it is in my car outside with Cressit."

"You've got him as well?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly. "Sage,
you're a miracle of sagacity," he added, again mentally noting the
phrase.

"The missing pencils, floats, and pedals you will find on the
left-hand side of the drive about half way down, under a laurel
bush," said Malcolm Sage quietly.

"And who is this fellow who did this scandalous thing?" demanded Sir
Lyster.

"My chauffeur."

"Your chauffeur!"

"I could not risk the thief having access to a fast car."

"But what if this fellow Cressit refuses to go?" enquired Lord
Beamdale.

"He won't," said Malcolm Sage grimly. "D.O.R.A. is still in
operation. I had to remind him of the fact."

Malcolm Sage picked up his hat and coat and walked towards the door.

"I must be going," he said. "I have still several things to attend
to. You won't forget about the plunder from the garage?" he added.

"But what am I to do about Miss Blair?" asked Sir Lyster.

"That's a question I think you will find answered in the Gospel of
St. Luke--the seventh chapter and I think the forty-seventh verse";
and with that he was gone, leaving three Ministers gazing at one
another in dumb astonishment.

Had a cynic been peeping into the library of The Towers a few
minutes later, he would have discovered three Cabinet Ministers
bending over a New Testament, which Sir Lyster had fetched from his
wife's boudoir, and the words they read were: "Wherefore I say unto
thee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."

"Strange," murmured Lord Beamdale, "very strange," and the others
knew that he was referring not to the text, or to the unhappy girl--
but to Malcolm Sage.

"We are always surprised when we find Saul among the prophets,"
remarked Mr. Llewellyn John, and he made a mental note of the phrase.
It might do for the "Wee Frees."




CHAPTER VIII     GLADYS NORMAN DINES WITH THOMPSON




I


"Tommy," remarked Miss Gladys Norman one day as Thompson entered her
room through the glass-panelled door, "have you ever thought what I
shall do fifty years hence?"

"Darn my socks," replied the practical Thompson.

"I mean," she proceeded with withering deliberation, "what will
happen when I can't do the hundred in ten seconds?"

Thompson looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"My cousin Will says that if you can't do the hundred yards in ten
seconds you haven't an earthly," she explained. "It's been worrying
me. What am I to do when I'm old and rheumaticky and the Chief does
three on the buzzer? He's bound to notice it and he'll _look_."

Malcolm Sage's "look" was a slight widening of the eyes as he gazed
at a delinquent. It was his method of conveying rebuke. That "look"
would cause Thompson to swear earnestly under his breath for the
rest of the day, whilst on Gladys Norman it had several distinct
effects, the biting of her lower lips, the snubbing of Thompson, the
merciless banging of her typewriter, and a self-administered rebuke
of "Gladys Norman, you're a silly little ass," being the most
noticeable.

For a moment Thompson thought deeply, then with sudden inspiration
he said, "Why not move your table nearer his door?"

"What a brain!" she cried, regarding him with mock admiration. "You
must have been waving it with Hindes' curlers. Yes," she added, "you
may take me out to dinner to-night, Tommy."

Thompson was in the act of waving his hat wildly over his head when
Malcolm Sage came out of his room. For the fraction of a second he
paused and regarded his subordinates.

"It's not another war, I hope," he remarked, and, without waiting
for a reply, he turned, re-entered his room and closed the door.

Gladys Norman collapsed over her typewriter, where with heaving
shoulders she strove to mute her mirth with a ridiculous dab of pink
cambric.

Thompson looked crestfallen. He had turned just in time to see
Malcolm Sage re-enter his room.

Three sharp bursts on the buzzer brought Gladys Norman to her feet.
There was a flurry of skirt, the flash of a pair of shapely ankles,
and she disappeared into Malcolm Sage's room.




II


"It's a funny old world," remarked Gladys Norman that evening, as
she and Thompson sat at a sheltered table in a little Soho
restaurant.

"It's a jolly nice old world," remarked Thompson, looking up from
his plate, "and this chicken is it."

"Chicken first; Gladys Norman also ran," she remarked scathingly.

Thompson grinned and returned to his plate.

"Why do you like the Chief, Tommy?" she demanded.

Thompson paused in his eating, resting his hands, still holding
knife and fork, upon the edge of the table. The suddenness of the
question had startled him.

"If you must sit like that, at least close your mouth," she said
severely.

Thompson replaced his knife and fork upon the plate.

"Well, why _do_ you?" she queried.

"Why do I what?" he asked.

She made a movement of impatience. "Like the Chief, of course." Then
as he did not reply she continued: "Why does Tims like him, and the
Innocent, and Sir James, and Sir John Dene, and the whole blessed
lot of us? Why is it, Tommy, why?"

Thompson merely gaped, as if she had propounded some unanswerable
riddle.

"Why is it?" she repeated. Then as he still remained silent she
added, "There's no hurry, Tommy dear; just go on listening with your
mouth. I quite realise the compliment."

"I'm blessed if I know," he burst out at last. "I suppose it's
because he's 'M.S.,'" and he returned to his plate.

"Yes, but _why_ is it?" she persisted, as she continued mechanically
to crumble her bread. "That's what _I_ want to know; why is it?"

Thompson looked at her a little anxiously. By nature he was inclined
to take things for granted, things outside his profession that is.

"It's a funny old world, Tommikins," she repeated at length, picking
up her knife and fork, "funnier for some than for others."

Thompson looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. There were
times when he found Gladys Norman difficult to understand.

"For a girl, I mean," she added, as if that explained it.

Thompson still stared. The remark did not strike him as illuminating.

"It may be," she continued meditatively, "that I like doing things
for the Chief because he was my haven of refuge from a wicked world;
but that doesn't explain why you and Tims----"

"Your haven of refuge!" repeated Thompson, making a gulp of a
mouthful, and once more laying down his knife and fork, as he looked
across at her curiously.

"Before I went to the Ministry I had one or two rather beastly
experiences." She paused as if mentally reviewing some unpleasant
incident.

"Tell me, Gladys." Thompson was now all attention.

"Well, I once went to see a man in Shaftesbury Avenue who had
advertised for a secretary. He was a funny old bean," she added
reminiscently, "all eyes and no waist, and more curious as to
whether I lived alone, or with my people, than about my speeds. So I
told him my brother was a prize-fighter, and----"

"But you haven't got a brother," broke in Thompson.

"I told him that for the good of his soul, Tommy, and of the girls
who came after me," she added a little grimly.

"It was funny," she continued after a pause. "He didn't seem a bit
eager to engage me after that. Said my speeds (which I hadn't told
him) were not good enough; but to show there was no ill-feeling he
tried to kiss me at parting. So I boxed his ears, slung his own
inkpot at him and came away. Oh! it's a great game, Tommy, played
slow," she added as an after-thought, and she hummed a snatch of a
popular fox-trot.

"The swine!"

Thompson had just realised the significance of what he had heard.
There was an ugly look in his eyes.

"I then got a job at the Ministry of Economy and later at the
Ministry of Supply, and the Chief lifted me out by my bobbed hair
and put me into Department Z. That's why I call him my haven of
refuge. See, dearest?"

"What's the name of the fellow in Shaftesbury Avenue?" demanded
Thompson, his thoughts centring round the incident she had just
narrated.

"Naughty Tommy," she cried, making a face at them, "Mustn't get angry and
vicious. Besides," she added, "the Chief did for him."

"You told him?" cried Thompson incredulously, his interest still
keener than his appetite.

"I did," she replied airily, "and he dropped a hint at Scotland Yard.
I believe the gallant gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue has something
more than a smack and an inky face to remember little Gladys by. He
doesn't advertise for secretaries now."

Thompson gazed at her, admiration in his eyes.

"But that doesn't explain why I always want to please the Chief,
does it?" she demanded. "In romance, the knight kills the villain
for making love to the heroine, and then gets down to the same dirty
work himself. Now the Chief ought to have been bursting with
volcanic fires of passion for me. He should have crushed me to his
breast with merciless force, I beating against his chest-protector
with my clenched fists. Finally I should have lain passive and
unresisting in his arms, whilst he covered my eyes, ears, nose and
'transformation' with fevered, passionate kisses; not pecks like
yours, Tommy; but the real thing with a punch in them."

"What on earth----" began Thompson, when she continued.

"There should have been a fearful tempest on the other side of his
ribs. I should----"

"Don't talk rot, Gladys," broke in Thompson.

"I'm not talking rot," she protested. "I read it all in a novel that
sells by the million." Then after a moment's pause she continued:

"He saved me from the dragon; yet he doesn't even give me a box of
chocolates, and everybody in Whitehall knows that chocolates and
kisses won the war. When I fainted for him and he carried me into
his room, he didn't kiss me even then."

"You wouldn't have known it if he had," was Thompson's comment.

"Oh! wouldn't I?" she retorted. "That's all you know about girls, Mr.
Funny Thompson."

He stared across at her, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

"He doesn't take me out to dinner as other chiefs do," she
continued; "yet I hop about like a linnet when he buzzes for me. Why
is it?"

She gazed across at Thompson challengingly.

A look of anxiety began to manifest itself upon his good-natured
features. Psycho-analysis was not his strong point. In a vague way
he began to suspect that Gladys Norman's devotion to Malcolm Sage
was not strictly in accordance with Trade Union principles.

"There, get on with your chicken, you poor dear," she laughed, and
Thompson, picking up his knife and fork, proceeded to eat
mechanically. From time to time he glanced covertly across at Gladys.

"As to the Chief's looks," she continued, "his face is keen and taut,
and he's a strong, silent man; yet can you see his eyes hungry and
tempestuous, Tommy? I can't. Why is it," she demanded, "that when a
woman writes a novel she always stunts the strong, silent man?"

Thompson shook his head, with the air of a man who has given up
guessing.

"Imagine getting married to a strong, silent man," she continued,
"with only his strength and his silence, and perhaps a cheap
gramophone, to keep you amused in the evenings." She shuddered.
"No," she said with decision, "give me a regular old rattle-box
without a chin, like you, Tommy."

Mechanically Thompson's hand sought his chin, and Gladys laughed.

"Anyway, I'm not going to marry, in spite of the tube
furniture-posters. Uncle Jake says it's all nonsense to talk about
marriages being made in heaven; they're made in the Tottenham Court
Road."

Thompson had, however, returned to his plate. In her present mood,
Gladys Norman was beyond him. Realising the state of his mind, she
continued:

"He's got a head like a pierrot's cap and it's as bald as a
fivepenny egg, when it ought to be beautifully rounded and covered
with crisp curly hair. He wears glasses in front of eyes like bits
of slate, when they ought to be full of slumbrous passion. His jaw
is all right, only he doesn't use it enough; in books the strong,
silent man is a regular old chin-wag, and yet I fall over myself to
answer his buzzer. Why it is, I repeat?" She looked across at him
mischievously, enjoying the state of depression to which she had
reduced him.

Thompson merely shook his head.

"For all that," she continued, picking up her own knife and fork,
which in the excitement of describing Malcolm Sage she had laid down,
"for all that he would make a wonderful lover--once you could get
him started," and she laughed gleefully as if at some hidden joke.

Thompson gazed at her over a fork piled with food, which her remark
had arrested half-way to his mouth.

"He's chivalrous," she continued. "Look at the way he always tries
to help up the very people he has downed. It's just a game with
him----"

"No, it's not," burst out Thompson, through a mouthful of chicken
and sauté potato.

She gave him a look of disapproval that caused him to swallow
rapidly.

"The Chief doesn't look on it as a game," he persisted. "He's out to
stop crime and----"

"But that's not the point," she interrupted. "What I want to know is
why do I bounce off my chair like an india-rubber ball when he
buzzes?" she demanded relentlessly. "Why do I want to please him?
Why do I want to kick myself when I make mistakes? Why--Oh! Tommy,"
she broke off, "if you only had a brain as well as a stomach," and
she looked across at him reproachfully.

"Perhaps it's because he never complains," suggested Thompson, as he
placed his knife and fork at the "all clear" angle, and leaned back
in his chair with a sigh of contentment.

"You don't complain, Tommy," she retorted; "but you could buzz
yourself to blazes without getting me even to look up."

For fully a minute there was silence; Gladys Norman continued to
gaze down at the débris to which she had reduced her roll.

"No," she continued presently, "there is something else. I've
noticed the others; they're just the same." She paused, then
suddenly looking across at him she enquired, "What is loyalty,
Tommy?"

"Standing up and taking off your hat when they play 'God Save the
King,'" he replied glibly.

She laughed, and deftly flicked a bread pill she had just
manufactured, catching Thompson beneath the left eye and causing him
to blink violently.

"You're a funny old thing," she laughed. "You know quite well what I
mean, only you're too stupid to realise it. Look at the Innocent--
for him the Chief is the only man in all the world. Then there's
Tims. He'd get up in the middle of the night and drive the Chief to
blazes, and hang the petrol. Then there's you and me."

Thompson drew a cigarette-case from his pocket.

"I _think_ I know why it is," she said, nodding her pretty head
wisely. She paused, and as Thompson made no comment she continued:
"It's because he's human, warm flesh and blood."

"But when I'm warm flesh and blood," objected Thompson, with
corrugated brow, "you tell me not to be silly."

"Your idea of warmth, my dear man, was learnt on the upper reaches
of the Thames after dark," was the scathing retort.

"Yes, but----" he began, when she interrupted him.

"Look what he did for Miss Blair. Had her at the office and then--
then--looked after her."

"And afterwards got her a job," remarked Thompson. "But that's just
like the Chief," he added.

"Where did you meet him first, Tommy?" she enquired, as she leaned
forward slightly to light her cigarette at the match he held out to
her.

"In a bath," was the reply, as Thompson proceeded to light his own
cigarette.

"You're not a bit funny," she retorted.

"But it was," he persisted.

"Was what?"

"In a bath. He hadn't had one before and----"

"Not had a bath!" she cried. "If you try to pull my leg like that,
Tommy, you'll ladder my stockings."

"But I'm not," protested Thompson. "I met the Chief in a Turkish
bath, and he went into the hottest room and crumpled, so I looked
after him, and that's how I got to know him."

"Of course, you couldn't have happened to mention that it was a
_Turkish_ bath, Tommy, could you?" she said. "That wouldn't be you
at all. But what makes him do things like he did for Miss Blair?"

"I suppose because he's the Chief," was Thompson's reply.

Gladys Norman sighed elaborately. "There are moments, James
Thompson," she said, "when your conversation is almost inspiring,"
and she relapsed into silence.

For the last half-hour Thompson had been conscious of a feeling of
uneasiness. It had first manifested itself when he was engaged upon
a lightly grilled cutlet; had developed as he tackled the lower
joint of a leg of chicken; and become an alarming certainty when he
was half-way through a plate of apple tart and custard. Gladys
Norman's interest in Malcolm Sage had become more than a secretarial
one.

Mentally he debated the appalling prospect. By the time coffee was
finished he had reached an acute stage of mental misery. Suddenly
life had become, not only tinged, but absolutely impregnated with
wretchedness.

It was not until they had left the restaurant and were walking along
Shaftesbury Avenue that he summoned up courage to speak.

"Gladys," he said miserably, "you're not----" then he paused, not
daring to put into words his thought.

"He's so magnetic, so compelling," she murmured dreamily. "He knows
so much. Any girl might----"

She did not finish the sentence; but stole a glance at Thompson's
tragic face.

They walked in silence as far as Piccadilly Circus, then in the
glare of light she saw the misery of his expression.

"You silly old thing," she laughed, as she slipped her arm through
his. "You funny old thing," and she laughed again.

That laugh was a Boddy lifebelt to the sinking heart of Thompson.




CHAPTER IX     THE HOLDING UP OF LADY GLANEDALE




I


"More trouble, Tommy," remarked Gladys Norman one morning as James
Thompson entered her room. He looked across at her quickly, a keen
flash of interest in his somnolent brown eyes.

"Somebody's pinched Lady Glanedale's jewels. Just had a telephone
message. What a happy place the world would be without drink and
crime----"

"And women," added Thompson, alert of eye, and prepared to dodge
anything that was coming.

"Tommy, you're a beast. Get thee hence!" and, bending over her
typewriter, she became absorbed in rattling words on to paper.

Thompson had just reached the third line of "I'm Sorry I Made You
Cry," when his quick eye detected Malcolm Sage as he entered the
outer office.

With a brief "Good morning," Malcolm Sage passed into his room, and
a minute later Gladys Norman was reading from her note-book the
message that had come over the telephone to the effect that early
that morning a burglar had entered Lady Glanedale's bedroom at the
Home Park, Hyston, the country house of Sir Roger Glanedale, and,
under threat from a pistol, had demanded her jewel-case, which she
had accordingly handed to him.

As the jewels were insured with the Twentieth Century Insurance
Corporation, Ltd., Malcolm Sage had been immediately communicated
with, that he might take up the enquiry with a view to tracing the
missing property.

One of Malcolm Sage's first cases had been undertaken for this
company in connection with a burglary. He had been successful in
restoring the whole of the missing property. In consequence he
had been personally thanked by the Chairman at a fully attended
Board Meeting, and at the same time presented with a gold-mounted
walking-stick, which, as he remarked to Sir John Dene, no one but
a drum-major in full dress would dare to carry.

Having listened carefully as she read her notes, Malcolm Sage
dismissed Gladys Norman with a nod, and for some minutes sat at his
table drawing the inevitable diagrams upon his blotting pad.
Presently he rose, and walked over to a row of shelves filled with
red-backed volumes, lettered on the back "Records," with a number
and a date.

Every crime or curious occurrence that came under Malcolm Sage's
notice was duly chronicled in the pages of these volumes, which
contained miles of press-cuttings. They were rendered additionally
valuable by an elaborate system of cross-reference indexing.

After referring to an index-volume, Malcolm Sage selected one of the
folios, and returned with it to his table. Rapidly turning over the
pages he came to a newspaper-cutting, which was dated some five
weeks previously. This he read and pondered over for some time. It
ran:

DARING BURGLARY
Country Mansion Entered
Burglar's Sang-froid

In the early hours of yesterday morning a daring burglary was
committed at the Dower House, near Hyston, the residence of Mr.
Gerald Comminge, who was away from home at the time, by which the
burglar was able to make a rich haul of jewels.

In the early hours of the morning Mrs. Comminge was awakened by the
presence of a man in her room. As she sat up in bed, the man turned
an electric torch upon her and, pointing a revolver in her direction,
warned her that if she cried out he would shoot. He then demanded to
know where she kept her jewels, and Mrs. Comminge, too terrified to
do anything else, indicated a drawer in which lay her jewel-case.

Taking the jewel-case and putting it under his arm, the man
threatened that if she moved or called out within a quarter of an
hour he would return and shoot her. He then got out of the window on
to a small balcony and disappeared.

It seems that he gained admittance by clambering up some ivy and
thus on to the narrow balcony that runs the length of one side of
the house.

Immediately on the man's disappearance, Mrs. Comminge fainted. On
coming to she gave the alarm, and the police were immediately
telephoned for. Although the man's footprints are easily discernible
upon the mould and the soft turf, the culprit seems to have left no
other clue.

The description that Mrs. Comminge is able to give of her assailant
is rather lacking in detail, owing to the shock she experienced at
his sudden appearance. It would appear that the man is of medium
height and slight of build. He wore a cap and a black handkerchief
tied across his face just beneath his eyes, which entirely masked
his features. With this very inadequate description of the ruffian
the police have perforce to set to work upon the very difficult task
of tracing him.

For some time Malcolm Sage pondered over the cutting, then rising he
replaced the volume and rang for Thompson.

An hour later Tims was carrying him along in the direction of Sir
Roger Glanedale's house at a good thirty-five miles an hour.

The Home Park was an Elizabethan mansion that had been acquired by
Sir Roger Glanedale out of enormous profits made upon the sale of
margarine. As Tims brought the car up before the front entrance with
an impressive sweep, the hall-door was thrown open by the butler,
who habitually strove by an excessive dignity of demeanour to remove
from his mental palate the humiliating flavour of margarine.

Malcolm Sage's card considerably mitigated the impression made upon
Mr. Hibbs's mind by the swing with which Tims had brought the car up
to the door.

Malcolm Sage was shown into the morning-room and told that her
ladyship would see him in a few minutes. He was busy in the
contemplation of the garden when the door opened and Lady Glanedale
entered.

He bowed and then, as Lady Glanedale seated herself at a small table,
he took the nearest chair.

She was a little woman, some eight inches too short for the air she
assumed, fair, good-looking; but with a hard, set mouth. No one had
ever permitted her to forget that she had married margarine.

"You have called about the burglary?" she enquired, in a tone she
might have adopted to a plumber who had come to see to a leak in the
bath.

Malcolm Sage bowed.

"Perhaps you will give me the details," he said. "Kindly be as brief
as possible," his "incipient Bolshevism" manifesting itself in his
manner.

Lady Glanedale elevated her eyebrows; but, as Malcolm Sage's eyes
were not upon her, she proceeded to tell her story.

"About one o'clock this morning I was awakened to find a man in my
bedroom," she began. "He was standing between the bedstead and the
farther window, his face masked. He had a pistol in one hand, which
he pointed towards me, and an electric torch in the other. I sat up
in bed and stared at him. 'If you call out I shall kill you,' he
said. I asked him what he wanted. He replied that if I gave him my
jewel-case and did not call for help, he would not do me any harm.

"Realising that I was helpless, I got out of bed, put on a wrapper,
opened a small safe I have set in the wall, and handed him one of
the two jewel-cases I possess.

"He then made me promise that I would not ring or call out for a
quarter of an hour, and he disappeared out of the window.

"At the end of a quarter of an hour I summoned help, and my stepson,
the butler, and several other servants came to my room. We
telephoned for the police, and after breakfast we telephoned to the
insurance company."

For fully a minute there was silence. Malcolm Sage decided that
Lady Glanedale certainly possessed the faculty of telling a story
with all the events in their proper sequence. He found himself with
very few questions to put to her.

"Can you describe the man?" he asked as he mechanically turned over
the leaves of a book on a table beside him.

"Not very well," she replied. "I saw little more than a silhouette
against the window. He was of medium height, slight of build and I
should say young."

"That seems to agree with the description of the man who robbed Mrs.
Comminge," he said as if to himself.

"That is what the inspector said," remarked Lady Glanedale.

"His voice?"

"Was rather husky, as if he were trying to disguise it."

"Was it the voice of a man of refinement or otherwise?"

"I should describe it as middle-class," was the snobbish response.

"The mask?"

"It looked like a silk handkerchief tied across his nose. It was
dark in tone; but I could get only a dim impression."

Malcolm Sage inclined his head comprehendingly.

"You know Mrs. Comminge?"

"Intimately."

"You mentioned two jewel-cases," he said.

"The one stolen contained those I mostly wear," replied Lady
Glanedale; "in the other I keep some very valuable family jewels."

"What was the value of those stolen?"

"About 8,000 pounds," she replied, "possibly more. I should explain,
perhaps, that Sir Roger was staying in town last night, and so far I
have not been able to get him on the telephone. He was to have
stayed at the Ritzton; but apparently he found them full and went
elsewhere."

"You have no suspicion as to who it was that entered your room?"

"None whatever," said Lady Glanedale.

"The police have already been?" he enquired, as he examined with
great intentness a rose he had taken from a bowl beside him.

"Yes, they came shortly after we telephoned. They gave instructions
that nothing was to be touched in the room, and no one was to go
near the ground beneath the windows."

Malcolm Sage nodded approvingly, and returned the rose to the bowl.

"And now," he said, "I think I should like to see the room. By the
way, I take it that you keep your safe locked?"

"Always," said Lady Glanedale.

"Where do you keep the key?"

"In the bottom right-hand drawer of my dressing-table, under a pile
of handkerchiefs."

"As soon as you can I should like to see a list of the jewels," said
Malcolm Sage, as he followed Lady Glanedale towards the door.

"My maid is copying it out now," she replied, and led the way up the
staircase, along a heavily-carpeted corridor, at the end of which
she threw open a door giving access to a bedroom.

Malcolm Sage entered and gave a swift look about him, seeming to
note and catalogue every detail. It was a large room, with two
windows looking out on to a lawn. On the right was a door, which,
Lady Glanedale explained, led to Sir Roger's dressing-room.

He walked over to the window near the dressing-room and looked out.

"That is the window he must have entered by; he went out that way,"
explained Lady Glanedale.

"You spoke of a stepson," said Malcolm Sage. "He is a man, I
presume?"

"He is twenty-three." Lady Glanedale elevated her eyebrows as if
surprised at the question.

"Can you send for him?"

"Certainly, if you wish it." She rang the bell, and a moment later
requested the maid who answered it to ask Mr. Robert to come
immediately.

"Do you sleep with lowered blinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"The one nearest my bed I always keep down; the other I pull up
after putting out my light."

"Did you awaken suddenly, or gradually--as if it were your usual
time to awaken?"

"It was gradual," said Lady Glanedale, after a pause for thought. "I
remember having the feeling that someone was looking at me."

"Was the light from the torch shining on your face?"

"No, it was turned to the opposite side of the room, on my right as
I lay in bed."

At that moment a young man in tweeds entered.

"You want me, Mater?" he enquired; then, looking across at Malcolm
Sage with a slightly troubled shadow in his eyes, he bowed.

"This is Mr. Sage from the insurance company," said. Lady Glanedale
coldly. "He wishes to see you."

Again there was the slightly troubled look in young Glanedale's eyes.

"Perhaps you will place Mr. Glanedale in the exact position in which
the man was standing when you first saw him," said Malcolm Sage.

Without a word Lady Glanedale walked over to the spot she had
indicated, young Glanedale following. When she had got him into the
desired position she turned interrogatingly to Malcolm Sage.

"Now," he said, "will you be so kind as to lie on your bed in the
same position in which you were when you awakened."

For a moment Lady Glanedale's eyebrows indicated surprise. She used
her eyebrows more than any other feature for the purpose of
expressing emotion. Without comment, however, she lay down upon the
bed on her right side, closed her eyes, then a moment later sat up
and gazed in the direction where Glanedale stood looking awkward and
self-conscious.

"Perhaps you will repeat every movement you made," said Malcolm Sage.
"Try to open the safe-door exactly as you did then, and leave it at
the same angle. Every detail is important."

Lady Glanedale rose, picked up a wrapper that was lying over a
chair-back, put it on and, walking over to the safe, turned the key
that was in the lock, and opened it. Then, standing between the safe
and Glanedale, she took out a jewel-case and closed the door.
Finally she walked over to where her stepson stood, and handed him
the jewel-case.

"Thank you," said Malcolm Sage. "I wanted to see whether or not the
man had the opportunity of seeing into the safe."

"I took care to stand in front of it," she said.

"So I observed. You allowed the quarter of an hour to elapse before
you raised the alarm?"

"Certainly, I had promised," was the response.

"But a promise extorted by threats of violence is not binding," he
suggested as he pulled meditatively at his right ear.

"It is with me," was the cold retort.

He inclined his head slightly.

"I notice that the ground beneath the windows has been roped off."

"The inspector thought it had better be done, as there were
footprints."

"I will not trouble you further for the present, Lady Glanedale,"
said Malcolm Sage, moving towards the door. "I should like to spend
a little time in the grounds. Later I may require to interrogate the
servants."

Young Glanedale opened the door and his stepmother, followed by
Malcolm Sage, passed out. They descended the stairs together.

"Please don't trouble to come out," said Malcolm Sage. "I shall
probably be some little time," this as Lady Glanedale moved towards
the hall-door. "By the way," he said, as she turned towards the
morning-room where she had received him, "did you happen to notice
if the man was wearing boots, or was he in stockinged feet?"

"I think he wore boots, she said, after a momentary pause.

"Thank you," and Malcolm Sage turned towards the door, which was
held open by the butler.

Passing down the steps and to the left, he walked round to the side
of the house, where the space immediately beneath Lady Glanedale's
windows had been roped off.

Stepping over the protecting rope, he examined the ground beneath
the window through which the burglar had entered.

Running along the side of the house was a flowerbed some two feet
six inches wide, and on its surface was clearly indicated a series
of footprints. On the side of the painted water-pipe were scratches
such as might have been made by someone climbing up to the window
above.

Drawing a spring metal-rule from his pocket, he proceeded to take a
series of measurements, which he jotted down in a notebook.

He next examined the water-pipe up which the man presumably had
climbed, and presently passed on to a similar pipe farther to the
left. Every inch of ground he subjected to a careful and elaborate
examination, lifting the lower branches of some evergreens and
gazing beneath them.

Finally, closing his notebook with a snap, Malcolm Sage seated
himself upon a garden-seat and, carefully filling and lighting his
pipe, he became absorbed in the polished pinkness of the third
fingernail of his left hand.

A quarter of an hour later he was joined by young Glanedale.

"Found anything?" he enquired.

"There are some footprints," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him
keenly. "By the way, what did you do when you heard of the robbery?"

"I went to the Mater's room."

"And after that?"

"I rushed downstairs and started looking about."

"You didn't happen to come anywhere near this spot, or walk upon the
mould there?" He nodded at the place he had just been examining.

"No; as a matter of fact, I avoided it. The Mater warned me to be
careful."

Malcolm Sage nodded his head.

"Did the butler join you in your search?" he enquired.

"About five minutes later he did. He had to go back and put on some
things; he was rather sketchy when he turned up in the Mater's
room." Glanedale grinned at the recollection.

"And you?" Malcolm Sage flashed on him that steel grey look of
interrogation. For a moment the young man seemed embarrassed, and he
hesitated before replying.

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't turned in," he said at length.

"I see," said Malcolm Sage, and there was something in his tone that
caused Glanedale to look at him quickly.

"It was such a rippin' night that I sat at my bedroom window
smoking," he explained a little nervously.

"Which is your bedroom window?"

Glanedale nodded in the direction of the farther end of the house.

"That's the governor's dressing-room," he said, indicating the
window on the left of that through which the burglar had escaped,
"and the next is mine."

"Did you see anything?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who, having unscrewed
the mouthpiece of his pipe, proceeded to clean it with a blade of
grass.

Again there was the slightest suggestion of hesitation before
Glanedale replied.

"No, nothing. You see," he added hastily, "I was not looking out of
the window, merely sitting at it. As a matter of fact, I was facing
the other way."

"You heard no noise?"

Glanedale shook his head.

"So that the first intimation you had of anything being wrong was
what?" he asked.

"I heard the Mater at her door calling for assistance, and I went
immediately."

Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the water-pipe speculatively.

"I wonder if anyone really could climb up that," he said. "I'm sure
I couldn't."

"Nothing easier," said Glanedale. "I could shin up in two ticks,"
and he made a movement towards the pipe.

"No," said Malcolm Sage, putting a detaining hand upon his arm. "If
you want to demonstrate your agility, try the other. There are marks
on this I want to preserve."

"Right-o," cried Glanedale with a laugh, and a moment later he was
shinning up the further pipe with the agility of a South Sea
islander after coker-nuts.

Malcolm Sage walked towards the pipe, glanced at it, and then at the
footprints beneath.

"You were quite right," he remarked casually. Then a moment later he
enquired:

"Do you usually sit up late?"

"We're not exactly early birds," Glanedale replied a little
irrelevantly. "The Mater plays a lot of bridge, you know," he added.

"And that keeps you out of bed?"

"Yes and no," was the reply. "I can't afford to play with the
Mater's crowd; but I have to hang about until after they've gone.
The governor hates it. You see," he added confidentially, "when a
man's had to make his money, he knows the value of it."

"True," said Malcolm Sage, but from the look in his eyes his
thoughts seemed elsewhere.

"By the way, what time was it that you had a shower here last
night?"

"A shower?" repeated Glanedale. "Oh! yes, I remember, it was just
about twelve o'clock; it only lasted about ten minutes."

"I'll think things over," said Malcolm Sage, and Glanedale, taking
the hint, strolled off towards the house.

Malcolm Sage walked over to where an old man was trimming a hedge.

"Could you lend me a trowel for half an hour?" he enquired.

"No, dang it, I can't," growled the old fellow. "I ain't a-going to
lend no more trowels or anything else."

"Why?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"There's my best trowel gone out of the tool-house," he grumbled,
"and I ain't a-going to lend no others."

"How did it go?"

"How should I know?" he complained. "Walked out, I suppose, same as
trowels is always doin'."

"When did you miss it?"

"It was there day 'fore yesterday I'll swear, and I ain't a-going to
lend no more."

"Do you think the man who took the jewels stole it?" enquired
Malcolm Sage.

"Dang the jools," he retorted, "I want my trowel," and, grumbling to
himself, the old fellow shuffled off to the other end of the hedge.

Half an hour later Malcolm Sage was in Hyston, interviewing the
inspector of police, who was incoherent with excitement. He learned
that Scotland Yard was sending down a man that afternoon,
furthermore that elaborate enquiries were being made in the
neighbourhood as to any suspicious characters having recently been
seen.

Malcolm Sage asked a number of questions, to which he received more
or less impatient replies. The inspector was convinced that the
robbery was the work of the same man who had got away with Mrs.
Comminge's jewels, and he was impatient with anyone who did not
share this view.

From the police station Malcolm Sage went to The Painted Flag, where,
having ordered lunch, he got through to the Twentieth Century
Insurance Corporation, and made an appointment to meet one of the
assessors at Home Park at three o'clock.




CHAPTER X     A LESSON IN DEDUCTION




I


Mr. Grimwood, of the firm of Grimwood, Galton & Davy, insurance
assessors, looked up from the list in his hand. He was a shrewd
little man, with side-whiskers, pince-nez that would never sit
straight upon his aquiline nose, and an impressive cough.

He glanced from Malcolm Sage to young Glanedale, then back again to
Malcolm Sage; finally he coughed.

The three men were seated in Sir Roger Glanedale's library awaiting
the coming of Lady Glanedale.

"And yet Mr. Glanedale heard nothing," remarked Mr. Grimwood
musingly. "Strange, very strange."

"Are you in the habit of sitting smoking at your bedroom window?"
enquired Malcolm Sage of Glanedale, his eyes averted.

"Er--no, not exactly," was the hesitating response.

"Can you remember when last you did such a thing?" was the next
question.

"I'm afraid I can't," said Glanedale, with an uneasy laugh.

"Perhaps you had seen something that puzzled you," continued Malcolm
Sage, his restless fingers tracing an imaginary design upon the
polished surface of the table before him.

Glanedale was silent. He fingered his moustache with a nervous hand.
Mr. Grimwood looked across at Malcolm Sage curiously.

"And you were watching in the hope of seeing something more,"
continued Malcolm Sage.

"I----" began Glanedale, starting violently, then he stopped.

"Don't you think you had better tell us exactly what it was you
saw," said Malcolm Sage, raising a pair of gold-rimmed eyes that
mercilessly beat down the uneasy gaze of the young man.

"I--I didn't say I saw anything."

"It is for you to decide, Mr. Glanedale," said Malcolm Sage, with
an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, "whether it is
better to tell your story now, or under cross-examination in the
witness-box. There you will be under oath, and the proceedings will
be public."

At that moment Lady Glanedale entered, and the three men rose.

"I am sorry to interrupt you," she said coldly, "but Sir Roger has
just telephoned and wishes to speak to Mr. Glanedale."

"I fear we shall have to keep Sir Roger waiting," said Malcolm Sage,
walking over to the door and closing it.

Lady Glanedale looked at him in surprise.

"I do not understand," she began.

"You will immediately," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "We were just
discussing the robbery." He slightly stressed the word "robbery."

"Really----" began Lady Glanedale.

"Mr. Glanedale was sitting at his window smoking," continued Malcolm
Sage evenly. "He cannot remember ever having done such a thing
before. I suggested that something unusual had attracted his
attention, and that he was waiting to see what would follow. I was
just about to tell him what had attracted his attention when you
entered, Lady Glanedale."

Glanedale looked across at his step-mother and then at Malcolm Sage.
His misery was obvious.

"Last night, soon after twelve," continued Malcolm Sage, "Mr.
Glanedale happened to look out of his window and was surprised to
see a figure moving along towards the left. It was not the figure of
a man with a handkerchief tied across his face as a mask; but a
woman. He watched. He saw it pause beneath the second window of your
bedroom, Lady Glanedale, not the one by which the burglar entered.
Then it stooped down."

Malcolm Sage's fingers seemed to be tracing each movement of the
mysterious figure upon the surface of the table. Lady Glanedale
gazed at his long, shapely hands as if hypnotised.

"Presently," he continued, "it returned to the first window, where
it was occupied for some minutes. Mr. Glanedale could not see this;
but the figure was engaged in making footprints and marking the
sides of the water-pipe with a shoe or boot as high up as it could
reach. It----"

"How dare you make such an accusation!" cried Lady Glanedale, making
an effort to rise; but she sank back again in her chair, her face
plaster-white.

"I have made no accusation," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "I am
telling what Mr. Glanedale saw."

A hunted look sprang to Lady Glanedale's eyes. She tore her eyes
from those magnetic fingers and gazed about her wildly as if
meditating flight. Her throat seemed as if made of leather.

"Would you be prepared to deny all this in the witness-box under
oath, Mr. Glanedale?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

Glanedale looked at him with unseeing eyes, then across at his
step-mother.

"The woman had put on a pair of men's boots that the footprints
might be masculine. They were so much too large for her that she had
to drag her feet along the ground. The boots were those of a man
weighing, say, about eleven and a half stone; the weight inside
those boots shown by the impression in the mould was little more
than seven stone."

Lady Glanedale put out her hand as if to ward off a blow; but
Malcolm Sage continued mercilessly, addressing Glanedale.

"The length of a man's stride is thirty inches; between these steps
the space was less than fifteen inches. Skirts are worn very
narrow."

He paused, then, as Lady Glanedale made no reply, he turned to
Glanedale.

"I asked you this morning," he said, "to climb the other pipe for
the double purpose of examining the impress of your boots on the
mould as you left the ground and when you dropped back again on to
the mould. Also to see what sort of marks a pair of leather boots
would make upon the weatherworn paint of the pipe.

"As you sprang from the ground and clutched the pipe, there was a
deep impress on the mould of the soles of both boots, deep at the
toes and tapering off towards the heel. On your return you made
distinct heel-marks as well."

Lady Glanedale had buried her face in her hands. She must blot out
the sight of those terrible hands! Glanedale sat with his eyes upon
Malcolm Sage as if hypnotised.

"There was a shower of rain last night about twelve, an hour before
the alleged burglar arrived; yet the footprints were made before the
rain fell. In two cases leaves had been trodden into the footprints;
yet on these leaves were drops of rain just as they had fallen."

The hands seemed to draw the leaves and indicate the spots of water
as if they had been blood. Glanedale shuddered involuntarily.

"In the centre-part of the pipe there were no marks, although there
were light scratches for as high up as the arm of a short person
could reach, and as far down from the bedroom window as a similar
arm could stretch. These scratches were quite dissimilar from those
made on the other pipe."

Lady Glanedale moaned something unintelligible.

"Although there had been a shower and the mould was wet," proceeded
Ma

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