‘A curious arrangement. How do you explain it?’
‘I thought perhaps Dupierre’s people had temporarily run out of labels and were making an old one do again.’
Burnley replied absently, as he turned the matter over in his mind. The clerk’s suggestion was of course possible, in fact, if the cask really contained a statue, it was the likely one. On the other hand, if it held a body, he imagined the reason was further to seek. In this case he thought it improbable that the cask had come from Dupierre’s at all and, if not, what had happened? A possible explanation occurred to him. Suppose some unknown person had received a statue from Dupierre’s in the cask and, before returning the latter, had committed a murder. Suppose he wanted to get rid of the body by sending it somewhere in the cask. What would he do with the label? Why, what had been done. He would wish to retain Dupierre’s printed matter in order to facilitate the passage of the cask through the Customs, but he would have to change the written address. The Inspector could think of no better way of doing this than by the alteration that had been made. He turned again to his visitors. ‘Well gentlemen, I’m greatly obliged to you for your prompt call and information, and if you will give me your addresses, I think that is all we can do to-night.’
Inspector Burnley again made his way home. But it was not his lucky night. About half-past nine he was again sent for from the Yard. Some one wanted to speak to him urgently on the telephone.
CHAPTER III
At thesame time that Inspector Burnley was interviewing Broughton and Harkness in his office, another series of events centring round the cask was in progress in a different part of London.
Police Constable Z76, John Walker in private life, was a newly-joined member of the force. A young man of ideas and of promise, he took himself and his work seriously. He had ambitions, the chief of which was to become a detective officer, and he dreamed of the day when he would have climbed to the giddy eminence of an Inspector of the Yard. He had read Conan Doyle, Austin Freeman, and other masters of detective fiction, and their tales had stimulated his imagination. His efforts to emulate their heroes added to the interest of life and, if they did not do him very much good, at least did him no harm.
About half-past six that evening, Constable Walker, attired in plain clothes, was strolling slowly along the Holloway Road. He had come off duty shortly before, had had his tea, and was now killing time until he could go to see the second instalment of that thrilling drama, ‘Lured by Love,’ at the Islington Picture House. Though on pleasure bent, as he walked he kept on practising observation and deduction. He had made a habit of noting the appearance of the people he saw and trying to deduce their histories and, if he did not succeed in this so well as Sherlock Holmes, he hoped he would some day.
He looked at the people on the pathway beside him, but none of them seemed a good subject for study. But as his gaze swept over the vehicles in the roadway it fell on one which held his attention.
Coming along the street to meet him was a four-wheeled dray drawn by a light brown horse. On the dray, upended, was a large cask. Two men sat in front. One, a thin-faced, wiry fellow was driving. The other a rather small-sized man, was leaning as if wearied out against the cask. This man had a black beard.
Constable Walker’s heart beat fast. He had always made it a point to memorise thoroughly the descriptions of wanted men, and only that afternoon he had seen a wire from Headquarters containing the description of just such an equipage. It was wanted, and wanted badly. Hadhefound it? Constable Walker’s excitement grew as he wondered.
Unostentatiously he turned and strolled in the direction in which the dray was going, while he laboured to recall in its every detail the description he had read. A four-wheeled dray—that was right; a single horse—right also. A heavily made, iron-clamped cask with one stave broken at the end and roughly repaired by nailing. He glanced at the vehicle which had now drawn level with him. Yes, the cask was well and heavily made and iron clamped, but whether it had a broken stave he could not tell. The dray was painted a brilliant blue and had a Tottenham Court Road address. Here Constable Walker had a blow. This dray was a muddy brown colour and bore the name, John Lyons and Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road. He suffered a keen disappointment. He had been getting so sure, and yet—— It certainly looked very like what was wanted except for the colour.
Constable Walker took another look at the reddish-brown paint. Curiously patchy it looked. Some parts were fresh and more or less glossy, others dull and drab. And then his excitement rose again to fever heat. He knew what that meant.
As a boy he had had the run of the small painting establishment in the village in which he had been brought up, and he had learnt a thing or two about paint. He knew that if you want paint to dry very quickly you flat it—you use turpentine or some other flatting instead of oil. Paint so made will dry in an hour, but it will have a dull, flat surface instead of a glossy one. But if you paint over with flat colour a surface recently painted in oil it will not dry so quickly, and when it does it dries in patches, the dry parts being dull, the wetter ones glossy. It was clear to Constable Walker that the dray had been recently painted with flat brown, and that it was only partly dry.
A thought struck him and he looked keenly at the mottled side. Yes, he was not mistaken. He could see dimly under the flat coat, faint traces of white lettering showing out lighter than the old blue ground. And then his heart leaped for he was sure! There was no possible chance of error!
He let the vehicle draw ahead, keeping his eye carefully on it while he thought of his great luck. And then he recollected that there should have been four men with it. There was a tall man with a sandy moustache, prominent cheekbones, and a strong chin; a small, lightly made, foreign-looking man with a black beard and two others whose descriptions had not been given. The man with the beard was on the dray, but the tall, red-haired man was not to be seen. Presumably the driver was one of the undescribed men.
It occurred to Constable Walker that perhaps the other two were walking. He therefore let the vehicle draw still farther ahead, and devoted himself to a careful examination of all the male foot-passengers going in the same direction. He crossed and recrossed the road. But nowhere could he see any one answering to the red-haired man’s description.
The quarry led steadily on in a northwesterly direction, Constable Walker following at a considerable distance behind. At the end of the Holloway Road it passed through Highgate, and continued out along the Great North Road. By this time it was growing dusk, and the constable drew slightly closer so as not to miss it if it made a sudden turn.
For nearly four miles the chase continued. It was now nearly eight, and Constable Walker reflected with a transient feeling of regret that ‘Lured by Love’ would then be in full swing. All immediate indications of the city had been left behind. The country was now suburban, the road being lined by detached and semidetached villas, with an occasional field bearing a ‘Building Ground to Let’ notice. The night was warm and very quiet. There was still light in the west, but an occasional star was appearing eastwards. Soon it would be quite dark.
Suddenly the dray stopped and a man got down and opened the gate of a drive on the right-hand side of the road. The constable melted into the hedge some fifty yards behind and remained motionless. Soon he heard the dray move off again and the hard, rattling noise of the road gave place to the softer, slightly grating sound of gravel. As the constable crept up along the hedge he could see the light of the dray moving towards the right.
A narrow lane branched off in the same direction immediately before reaching the property into which the dray had gone. The drive, in fact, was only some thirty feet beyond the lane and, so far as the constable could see, both lane and drive turned at right angles to the road and ran parallel, one outside and the other inside the property. The constable slipped down the lane, thus leaving the thick boundary hedge between himself and the others.
It was nearly though not quite dark, and the constable could make out the rather low outline of the house, showing black against the sky. The door was in the end gable facing the lane and was open, though the house was entirely in darkness. Behind the house, from the end of the gable and parallel to the lane, ran a wall about eight feet high, evidently the yard wall, in which was a gate. The drive passed the hall door and gable and led up to this gate. The buildings were close to the lane, not more than forty feet from where the constable crouched. Immediately inside the hedge was a row of small trees.
Standing in front of the yard gate was the dray, with one man at the horse’s head. As the constable crept closer he heard sounds of unbarring, and the gate swung open. In silence the man outside led the dray within and the gate swung to.
The spirit of adventure had risen high in Constable Walker, and he felt impelled to get still closer to see what was going on.
Opposite the hall door he had noticed a little gate in the hedge, and he retraced his steps to this and with infinite care opened it and passed silently through. Keeping well in the shadow of the hedge and under the trees, he crept down again opposite the yard door and reconnoitred.
Beyond the gate, that is on the side away from the house, the yard wall ran on for some fifty feet, at the end of which a cross hedge ran between it and the one under which he was standing. The constable moved warily along to this cross hedge, which he followed until he stood beside the wall.
In the corner between the hedge and the wall, unobserved till he reached it in the growing darkness, stood a small, openwork, rustic summer-house. As the constable looked at it an idea occurred to him.
With the utmost care he began to climb the side of the summer-house, testing every foothold before trusting his weight on it. Slowly he worked his way up until, cautiously raising his head, he was able to peep over the wall.
The yard was of fair length, stretching from where he crouched to the house, a distance of seventy or eighty feet, but was not more than about thirty feet wide. Along the opposite side it was bounded by a row of out-offices. The large double doors of one of these, apparently a coach-house, were open, and a light shone out from the interior. In front of the doorway and with its back to it stood the dray.
The coach-house being near the far end of the yard, Constable Walker was unable to see what was taking place within. He therefore raised himself upon the wall and slowly and silently crawled along the coping in the direction of the house. He was aware his strategic position was bad, but he reflected that, being on the southeast side of the yard, he had dark sky behind him, while the row of trees would still further blacken his background. He felt safe from observation, and continued till he was nearly opposite the coach-house. Then he stretched himself flat on the coping, hid his face, which he feared might show white if the lantern shone on it, behind the dark sleeve of his reddish brown coat, and waited.
He could now see into the coach-house. It was an empty room of fair size with whitewashed walls and a cement floor. On a peg in the wall hung a hurricane lamp, and by its light he saw the bearded man descending a pair of steps which was placed in the centre of the floor. The wiry man stood close by.
‘That hook’s all right,’ said the bearded man, ‘I have it over the tie beam. Now for the differential.’
He disappeared into an adjoining room, returning in a moment with a small set of chain blocks. Taking the end of this up the steps, he made it fast to something above. The steps were then removed, and Constable Walker could just see below the lintel of the door, the hook of the block with a thin chain sling hanging over it.
‘Now back in,’ said the bearded man.
The dray was backed in until the cask stood beneath the blocks. Both men with some apparent difficulty got the sling fixed, and then pulling on the chain loop, slowly raised the cask.
‘That’ll do,’ said the bearded man when it was some six inches up. ‘Draw out now.’
The wiry man came to the horse’s head and brought the dray out of the building, stopping in front of the yard gate. Taking the lantern from its hook and leaving the cask swinging in mid-air, the bearded man followed. He closed the coach-house doors and secured them with a running bolt and padlock, then crossed to the yard gates and began unfastening them. Both men were now within fifteen feet of Constable Walker, and he lay scarcely daring to breathe.
The wiry man spoke for the first time.
‘’Arf a mo,’ mister,’ he said, ‘what abaht that there money?’
‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I’ll give you yours now, and the other fellow can have his any time he comes for it.’
‘I don’t think,’ the wiry man replied aggressively. ‘I’ll take my pal’s now along o’ my own. When would ’e ’ave time to come around ’ere looking for it?’
‘If I give it to you, what guarantee have I that he won’t deny getting it and come and ask for more?’
‘You’ll ’ave no guarantee at all abaht it, only that I just tells yer. Come on, mister, ’and it over an’ let me get away. And don’t yer go for to think two quid’s goin’ for to settle it up. This ain’t the job wot we expected when we was ’ired, this ain’t. If you want us for to carry your little game through on the strict q.t., why, you’ll ’ave to pay for it, that’s wot.’
‘Confound your impertinence! What the devil do you mean?’
The other leered.
‘There ain’t no cause for you to swear at a poor workin’ man. Come now, mister, you an’ me understands each other well enough. You don’t want no questions asked. Ten quid apiece an’ me an’ my pal we don’t know nothin’ abaht it.’
‘My good man, you’ve gone out of your senses. I have nothing to keep quiet. This business is quite correct.’
The wiry man winked deliberately.
‘That’s orl right, mister, it’s quite c’rrect. And ten quid apiece’ll keep it that way?’
There was silence for a moment, and the bearded man spoke:—
‘You suspect there is something wrong about the cask? Well, you’re wrong, for there isn’t. But I admit that if you talk before Thursday next I’ll lose my bet. See here, I’ll give you five pounds apiece and you may have your mate’s.’ He counted out some coins, chinking them in his hands. ‘You may take it or leave it. You won’t get any more, for then it would be cheaper for me to lose the bet.’
The wiry man paused, eyeing the gold greedily. He opened his mouth to reply, then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. Irresolutely he stood, glancing questioningly at the other. Constable Walker could see his face clearly in the light of the lantern, with an evil, sardonic smile curling his lips. Then, like a man who, after weighing a problem, comes to a decision, he took the money and turned to the horse’s head.
‘Well, mister,’ he said, as he put his vehicle in motion, ‘that’s straight enough. I’ll stand by it.’
The bearded man closed and bolted the yard gates and disappeared with his lantern into the house. In a few seconds the sounds of the receding wheels on the gravel ceased and everything was still.
After waiting a few minutes motionless, Constable Walker slipped off the coping of the wall and dropped noiselessly to the ground. Tiptoeing across to the hedge, he passed silently out of the little gate and regained the lane.
CHAPTER IV
The constablepaused in the lane and considered. Up to the present he felt he had done splendidly, and he congratulated himself on his luck. But his next step he did not see clearly at all. Should he find the nearest police station and advise the head constable, or should he telephone, or even go to Scotland Yard? Or more difficult still, should he remain where he was and look-out for fresh developments?
He paused irresolutely for some fifteen minutes pondering the situation, and had almost made up his mind to telephone for instructions to his own station, when he heard a footstep slowly approaching along the lane. Anxious to remain unseen, he rapidly regained the small gate in the hedge, passed inside and took up a position behind the trunk of one of the small trees. The sounds grew gradually nearer. Whoever was approaching was doing so exceedingly slowly, and seemed to be coming on tiptoe. The steps passed the place where the constable waited, and he could make out dimly the form of what seemed to be a man of medium height. In a few seconds they stopped, and then returned slowly past the constable, finally coming to a stand close by the little gate. It was intensely still, and the constable could hear the unknown yawning and softly clearing his throat.
The last trace of light had gone from the sky and the stars were showing brightly. There was no wind but a sharpness began to creep into the air. At intervals came the disconnected sounds of night, the bark of a dog, the rustle of some small animal in the grass, the rush of a motor passing on the high road.
The constable’s problem was settled for him for the moment. He could not move while the other watcher remained. He gave a gentle little shiver and settled down to wait.
He began reckoning the time. It must, he thought, be about half-past eight o’clock. It was about eight when the dray had turned into the drive and he was sure half an hour at least must have passed since then. He had leave until ten and he did not want to be late without authority, though surely, under the circumstances, an excuse would be made for him. He began to picture the scene if he were late, the cold anger of the sergeant, the threat to report him, then his explanation, the sudden change of manner. . . .
A faint click of what seemed to be the entrance gate of the drive recalled him with a start to his present position. Footsteps sounded on the gravel, firm, heavy footsteps, walking quickly. A man was approaching the house.
Constable Walker edged round the tree trunk so as to get it between himself and any light that might come from the hall door. The man reached the door and rang.
In a few seconds a light appeared through the fanlight, and the door was opened by the bearded man. A big, broad-shouldered man in a dark overcoat and soft hat stood on the steps.
‘Hallo, Felix!’ cried the new-comer heartily. ‘Glad to see you’re at home. When did you get back?’
‘That you, Martin? Come in. I got back on Sunday night.’
‘I’ll not go in, thanks, but I want you to come round and make up a four at bridge. Tom Brice is with us, and he has brought along a friend of his, a young solicitor from Liverpool. You’ll come, won’t you?’
The man addressed as Felix hesitated a moment before replying.
‘Thanks, yes. I’ll go, certainly. But I’m all alone and I haven’t changed. Come in a minute till I do so.’
‘And, if it’s a fair question, where did you get your dinner if you’re all alone?’
‘In town. I’m only just home.’
They went in and the door was closed. Some few minutes later they emerged again and, pulling the door behind them, disappeared down the drive, the distant click of the gate signifying their arrival at the road. As soon as this sounded, the watcher in the lane moved rapidly, though silently, after them, and Constable Walker was left in undisputed possession.
On the coast becoming clear he slipped out on to the lane, walked down it to the road and turned back in the direction of London. As he did so a clock struck nine.
Entering the first inn he came to, he called for a glass of ale and, getting into conversation with the landlord, learnt that he was near the hamlet of Brent, on the Great North Road, and that Mr. Felix’s house was named St. Malo. He also inquired his way to the nearest public telephone, which, fortunately, was close by.
A few minutes later he was speaking to Scotland Yard. He had to wait for a little time while Inspector Burnley, who had gone home, was being fetched, but in fifteen minutes he had made his report and was awaiting instructions.
The Inspector questioned him closely about the position of the house, finally instructing him to return to his post behind the tree and await developments.
‘I will go out with some men now, and will look for you by the little gate in the hedge.’
Constable Walker walked rapidly back, and as he did so the same clock struck ten. He had been gone exactly an hour. In the meantime, Inspector Burnley got a taxi and, after a careful examination of his route and the district on a large scale map, started for St. Malo with three other men. He called on his way at Walpole Terrace, Queen Mary Road, where Tom Broughton lived and delighted that young man by inviting him to join the party. On the way, he explained in detail the lie of the house and grounds, where he wanted each man to stand, and what was to be done in various eventualities. The streets were full of people and motoring was slow, but it was still considerably before eleven when they entered the Great North Road.
They ran on till the Inspector judged they were not far from the house, when the car was run up a side road and the engine stopped. The five men then walked on in silence.
‘Wait here,’ whispered Burnley, when they had gone some distance, and slipped away into the dark. He found the lane, walked softly down it until he came to the little gate, slipped inside and came up to Constable Walker standing behind his tree.
‘I’m Inspector Burnley,’ he whispered. ‘Has any one come in or out yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, wait here until I post my men.’
He returned to the others and, speaking in a whisper, gave his directions.
‘You men take up the positions I explained to you. Listen out for a whistle to close in. Mr. Broughton, you come with me and keep silent.’
The Inspector and his young acquaintance walked down the lane, stopping outside the little gate. The other three men posted themselves at various points in the grounds. And then they waited.
It seemed to Broughton that several hours must have passed when a clock in the distance struck twelve. He and the Inspector were standing beside each other concealed under the hedge. Once or twice he had attempted whispered remarks, but Burnley was not responsive. It was rather cold and the stars were bright. A light breeze had risen and it rustled gently through the hedge and stirred the branches of the trees. An insistent dog was barking somewhere away to the right. A cart passed on the road, the wheels knocking on their axles annoyingly. It took ages to get out of earshot, the sounds coming in rotation through nearly a quarter of the compass. Then a car followed with a swift rush, the glare of the headlights glancing along through the trees. And still nothing happened.
After further ages the clock struck again—one. A second dog began barking. The breeze freshened, and Broughton wished he had brought a heavier coat. He longed to stamp up and down and ease his cramped limbs. And then the latch of the road gate clicked and footsteps sounded on the gravel.
They waited motionless as the steps came nearer. Soon a black shadow came into view and moved to the hall door. There was a jingling of keys; the rattling of a lock, the outline of the door became still darker, the shadow disappeared within and the door was closed.
Immediately Burnley whispered to Broughton:—
‘I am going now to ring at the door, and when he opens it I will flash my light in his face. Take a good look at him and if you are sure—absolutely positive—it is Felix, say ‘yes,’ just the one word ‘yes.’ Do you understand?’
They went in through the small gate, no longer taking any precautions against noise, walked to the door, and Burnley knocked loudly.
‘Now, remember, don’t speak unless you are sure,’ he whispered.
A light flickered through the fanlight and the door was opened. A beam from the Inspector’s dark lantern flashed on the face of the man within, revealing the same dark complexion and black beard that had attracted Constable Walker’s attention. The word ‘Yes’ came from Broughton and the Inspector said—
‘Mr. Léon Felix, I am Inspector Burnley from Scotland Yard. I have called on rather urgent business, and would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation.’
The black-bearded man started.
‘Oh, certainly,’ he said, after a momentary pause, ‘though I don’t know that it is quite the hour I would have suggested for a chat. Will you come in?’
‘Thanks. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have been waiting for you for a considerable time. Perhaps my man might sit in the hall out of the cold?’
Burnley called over one of his men who had been stationed near the summer-house.
‘Wait here till I speak to Mr. Felix, Hastings,’ he said, giving him a sign to be ready if called on. Then, leaving Broughton outside with Constable Walker and the other men, he followed Felix into a room on the left of the hall.
It was fitted up comfortably though not luxuriously as a study. In the middle of the room stood a flat-topped desk of modern design. Two deep, leather-covered arm-chairs were drawn up on each side of the fireplace, in which the embers still glowed. A tantalus stood on a small side table with a box of cigars. The walls were lined with bookshelves with here and there a good print. Felix lighted a reading-lamp which stood on the desk. He turned to Burnley.
‘Is it a sitting down matter?’ he said, indicating one of the arm-chairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.
‘I want, Mr. Felix,’ began the detective, ‘to make some inquiries about a cask which you got from the steamerBullfinchthis morning—or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday—and which I have reason to believe is still in your possession.’
‘Yes?’
‘The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which you expected.’
‘The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?’
‘But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced to a Mr. Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.’
‘The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.’
‘But if we bring the other Mr. Felix—The West Jubb Street Mr. Felix—here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it, persist in your claim?’
The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little pitfall only just in time.
‘If you produce such a man,’ he said at last, ‘I am sure I can easily convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.’
‘Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question. What was in the cask you were expecting?’
‘Statuary.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr. Inspector, I’d like to know by what right I am being subjected to this examination.’
‘I shall tell you, Mr. Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall——’
‘Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?’
‘Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.’
Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes. Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.
‘You will see for yourself, Mr. Felix, that if this matter is to blow over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.’
Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train of thought.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I have really nothing to hide, only one does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.’
Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:—
‘Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is full of plaques—plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary? And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask contains, Mr. Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr. Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We also know there is something else. Think again.’
‘Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.’
‘I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special object was included?’
‘Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.’
He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
CHAPTER V
‘I ama Frenchman, as you know,’ began Felix, ‘but I have lived in London for some years, and I run over to Paris frequently on both business and pleasure. About three weeks ago on one of these visits I dropped into the Café Toisson d’Or in the rue Royale, where I joined a group of acquaintances. The conversation turned on the French Government lotteries, and one of the men, a M. Le Gautier, who had been defending the system, said to me, “Why not join in a little flutter?” I refused at first, but afterwards changed my mind and said I would sport 500 francs if he did the same. He agreed, and I gave him £20 odd as my share. He was to carry the business through in his name, letting me know the result and halving the profits, if any. I thought no more about the matter till last Friday, when, on my return home in the evening, I found a letter from Le Gautier, which surprised, pleased, and annoyed me in equal measure.’
Mr. Felix drew a letter from a drawer of his writing-table and passed it to the Inspector. It was in French, and though the latter had a fair knowledge of the language, he was not quite equal to the task, and Mr. Felix translated. The letter ran as follows:—
‘Rue de Vallorbes, 997,
‘Avenue Friedland,
‘Paris.
‘Thursday,1st April, 1912.
‘My Dear Felix,—I have just had the most wonderful news!We have won!The lottery has drawn trumps and our 1000 francs has become 50,000—25,000 francs each! I shake both your hands!
‘The money I have already received, and I am sending your share at once. And now, old chap, do not be very annoyed when I tell you I am playing a little trick on you. I apologise.
‘You remember Dumarchez? Well, he and I had an argument about you last week. We were discussing the ingenuity and resource of criminals in evading the police. Your name happened to be mentioned, and I remarked what a splendid criminal a man of your inventive talents would make. He said “No,” that you were too transparently honest to deceive the police. We got hot about it and finally arranged a little test. I have packed your money in a cask, in English sovereigns—there are 988 of them—and am booking it to you, carriage paid, by the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company’s boat from Rouen, due in London about Monday, 5th April. But I am addressing it to “M. Léon Felix, 141 West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road, London, W.,” and labelling it “Statuary only,” from Dupierre et Cie., the monumental sculptors of Grenelle. It will take some ingenuity to get a falsely addressed and falsely described cask away from the steamer officials without being suspected of theft. That is the test. I have bet Dumarchez an even 5000 francs that you will do it. He says you will certainly be caught.
‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.
‘With profound apologies,
‘Yours very truly,
‘Alphonse Le Gautier.
PS.—Please excuse the typewriter, but I have hurt my hand.’
‘I don’t know whether pleasure at the unexpected windfall of nearly £1000, or annoyance at Le Gautier’s test with the cask was my strongest emotion. The more I thought of this part of it, the more angry I became. It was one thing that my friends should amuse themselves by backing their silly theories it was quite another that I should be the victim and scapegoat of their nonsense. Two things obviously might lead to complications. If it came out that a cask labelled “Statuary” contained gold, suspicion would be aroused, and the same thing would happen if any one discovered the address to be false. The contents of the cask might be questioned owing to the weight—that I did not know; the false address might come to light if an advice note of the cask’s arrival was sent out, while there was always the fear of unforeseen accidents. I was highly incensed, and I determined to wire early next morning to Le Gautier asking him not to send the cask, and saying I would go over and get the money. But to my further annoyance I had a card by the first post which said that the cask had already been despatched.
‘It was clear to me then that I must make arrangements to get it away as soon as possible after the boat came in, and before inquiries began to be made. I accordingly made my plans and, as I did so, my annoyance passed away and I got interested in the sporting side of the affair. First, I had a few cards of the false address printed. Then I found an obscure carting contractor, from whom I hired a four-wheeled dray and two men, together with the use of an empty shed for three days.
‘I had found out that the Steam Navigation boat would be due on the following Monday, and on the preceding Saturday I brought the men and the dray to the shed and prepared them for what I wanted done. To enlist their help and prevent them becoming suspicious, I gave the former a qualified version of Le Gautier’s story. I told them I had made a bet and said I wanted their help to pull it off. A certain cask was coming in by the Rouen boat, addressed to a friend of mine, and he had bet me a large sum that I could not get this cask from the steamer people and take it to my house, while I held that I could. The point was to test the effectiveness of the ordinary business precautions. In order, I told the men, that no real trouble should arise and that I should not, in the event of failure, be charged with theft, my friend had given me a written authorisation to take the cask. This I had written out previously and I showed it to them. Finally, I promised them two pounds each if we succeeded.
‘I had got a couple of pots of quick-drying blue and white paint, and I altered the lettering on the dray to that of the address my Paris friend had put on the cask. I am skilful at this kind of work and I did it myself.
‘On Monday morning we drove to the docks, and I found theBullfinchhad just come in with the Paris goods aboard. She was discharging casks from the forehold, and I strolled along the wharf and had a look at the work. The casks coming ashore were wine-casks, but I noticed one at the side of the hold, over which one of the dockers and a young man who looked like a clerk were bending. They seemed very engrossed, and of course I wondered, “Is this my cask, and have they discovered the gold?” I spoke to the young man, found that the cask was mine, and asked him if I could get it away at once.
‘He was quite polite, but would not help me, referring me to the quay office and offering to take me there and find a clerk to attend to me. As we were leaving he called out to the man at the cask, “You understand, Harkness, to do nothing till you hear from Mr. Avery.”’
At the wharf office the young man left me in the outer office while he went, as he said, to get the proper clerk for my work. But he returned with a man that was evidently the manager, and I knew at once that something was wrong. This opinion was confirmed when the manager began raising objection after objection to letting the cask go.
‘Some judicious questions elicited the fact that “Mr. Avery” was the managing director in the head office in Fenchurch Street. I left the wharf office, sat down on some boxes, and thought out the situation.
‘It was clear that something had aroused the suspicions of the clerk and the docker, Harkness, and the former’s remark to the latter to do nothing without instructions from Mr. Avery seemed to mean that the matter was to be laid before that gentleman. To “do nothing” evidently meant to hold on to the cask. If I were to get my property it was clear I must see to the supplying of those instructions myself.
‘I went to Fenchurch Street and asked for Mr. Avery. Fortunately for me he was engaged. I said I could not wait, and asked for a sheet of paper and envelope on which to write him a note. By the simple expedient of sealing and addressing the empty envelope, I thus provided myself with a sheet of paper bearing the firm’s heading.
‘I dropped into a bar and, ordering some ale, borrowed a pen and ink. Then I composed a letter from Mr. Avery to Harkness, instructing him to hand over the cask at once to me.
‘While I was writing this it occurred to me that if this man’s suspicions were really seriously aroused, he would probably follow the cask and thus trace me to my house. I lost another quarter of an hour pondering this problem. Then an idea occurred to me, and I added a paragraph saying that as the Navigation Company had contracted to deliver the cask at an address in the city, he, Harkness, was to accompany it and see that it reached its destination safely.
‘I wrote the letter in the round hand of a junior clerk, signing it “The I. and C. S. N. Co., Ltd., per” in the same hand, and “Avery” with an undecipherable initial in another kind of writing, and another “per,” and then two not very clear initials. I hoped in this way to mislead Harkness, if he happened to know the genuine signature.
‘It was my design to get Harkness away from the ship with the cask and my own men, when I hoped to find some way of giving him the slip. This I eventually did by instructing one of the men to clamour for a drink, and the other, a man named Watty, to refuse to leave the horse when I invited the party to a bar for some beer. On the plea of relieving Watty, I left Harkness and the other man drinking in the bar, and slipped away with Watty and the dray. Then he and I went back to the shed and I ran a coat of paint over the dray, restoring it to its original brown and painting out the fictitious name. In the evening we brought the dray home, timing ourselves to arrive here after dark, and unloaded the cask in one of the out-houses, where it now is.’
When Felix ceased speaking, the two men sat in silence for several minutes while Burnley turned the statement over in his mind. The sequence of events was unusual, but the story hung together, and, as he went over it in detail, he could see no reason why it should not, from Felix’s point of view, be true. If Felix believed his friend’s letter, as he appeared to, his actions were accounted for, and if the cask really contained a statue, the letter might explain the whole thing. On the other hand, if it held a corpse, the letter was a fraud, to which Felix might or might not be party.
Gradually, as he pondered, the matter shaped itself into three main considerations.
First, there was Felix’s general bearing and manner. The Inspector had a long and varied experience of men who told the truth and of men who lied, and all his instincts led him to believe this man. He was aware that such instincts are liable to error—he had himself erred on more than one occasion in the past—yet he could not overlook the fact that Felix’s bearing, as far as his impression went, was that of a sincere and honest man. Such a consideration would not be a decisive factor in his conclusion, but it would undoubtedly weigh.
Secondly, there was Felix’s account of his actions in London. Of the truth of this the Inspector had already received considerable independent testimony. He reviewed the chain of events and was surprised to find how few statements of Felix were unsupported. His first visit to theBullfinchhad been described in almost similar terms by Broughton and by Huston in the wharf office. His call at the Fenchurch Street office and the ruse by which he obtained the shipping company’s headed notepaper had been testified to by Mr. Avery and his chief clerk, Wilcox. His description of the letter he had written to Harkness was certainly accurate from the Inspector’s own knowledge. His account of the removal of the cask and the shaking off of Harkness was in agreement with the statement of the latter and finally, Felix’s description of the removal of the cask to its present resting place was fully corroborated by Constable Walker.
There was practically no part of the statement unsupported by outside evidence. In fact, Inspector Burnley could not recall any case where so much confirmation of a suspect’s story was forthcoming. Weighing the matter point by point, he came to the deliberate conclusion that he must unreservedly believe it.
So much for Felix’s actions in London. But there was a third point—his actions in Paris, culminating in the letter of his friend. The letter. That was the kernel of the nut. Was it really written under the circumstances described? Had Le Gautier written it? Was there even such a man as Le Gautier? All this, he thought, it should not be difficult to find out. He would get some more information from Felix and if necessary slip across to Paris and put the statements to the test. He broke the silence.
‘Who is M. Le Gautier?’
‘Junior partner in the firm of Le Gautier, Fils, wine merchants, in the rue Henri Quatre.’
‘And M. Dumarchez?’
‘A stockbroker.’
‘Can you give me his address?’
‘I don’t know his home address. His office is, I think, in the Boulevard Poissonière. But I could get you the address from M. Le Gautier.’
‘Please give me an account of your relations with these gentlemen.’
‘Well, I have known them both for years and we are good friends, but I cannot recall ever having had any money transactions with either until this matter of the lottery.’
‘The details of that mentioned in the letter are correct?’
‘Oh, perfectly.’
‘Can you remember where precisely the conversation about the lottery took place?’
‘It was in the ground floor room of the café, at the window to the right of the entrance, looking inwards.’
‘You say other gentlemen were present?’
‘Yes, a group of us were there and the conversation was general.’
‘Was your arrangement to enter the lottery heard by the group?’
‘Yes, we had quite a lot of good-natured chaff about it.’
‘And can you remember who were present?’
Mr. Felix hesitated.
‘I’m not sure that I can,’ he said at last. ‘The group was quite a casual one and I only joined it for a few moments. Le Gautier was there, of course, and a man called Daubigny, and Henri Boisson, and I think, Jaques Rôget, but of him I’m not sure. There were a number of others also.’
Felix answered the questions readily and the Inspector noted his replies. He felt inclined to believe the lottery business was genuine. At all events inquiries in Paris would speedily establish the point. But even if it was all true, that did not prove that Le Gautier had written the letter. A number of people had heard the conversation, and any one could have written it, even Felix himself. Ah, that was an idea! Could Felix be the writer? Was there any way of finding that out? The Inspector considered and then spoke again.
‘Have you the envelope this letter came in?’
‘Eh?’ said Felix, ‘the envelope? Why, no, I’m sure I haven’t. I never keep them.’
‘Or the card?’
Felix turned over the papers on his desk and rummaged in the drawers.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I can’t find it. I must have destroyed it, too.’
There was then no proof that these communications had been received by Felix. On the other hand there was no reason to doubt it. The Inspector kept an open mind as he turned again to the letter.
It was typewritten on rather thin, matt surfaced paper and, though Burnley was not an expert, he believed the type was foreign. Some signs of wear were present which he thought might identify the typewriter. The n’s and the r’s were leaning slightly to the right, the t’s and the e’s were below alignment, and the l’s had lost the horizontal bar at the top of the down-stroke. He held the paper up to the light. The watermark was somewhat obscured by the type, but after a time he made it out. It was undoubtedly French paper. This, of course, would not weigh much, as Felix by his own statement, was frequently in Paris, but still it did weigh.
The Inspector read the letter again. It was divided into four paragraphs and he pondered each in turn. The first was about the lottery. He did not know much about French lotteries, but the statements made could at least be verified. With the help of the French police it would be easy to find out if any drawings and payments had recently been made, and he could surely get a list of the winners. A winner of 50,000 francs, living in or near Paris, should be easily traced.
The second and third paragraphs were about the bet and the sending of the cask. Burnley turned the details over in his mind. Was the whole story a likely one? It certainly did not strike him as such. Even if such an unusual bet had been made, the test was an extremely poor one. He could hardly believe that a man who could invent the plan of the cask would not have done better. And yet it was undoubtedly possible.
Another idea entered the Inspector’s mind. He had, perhaps, been thinking too much of the £988, and too little of the woman’s hand. Suppose there really was a corpse in the cask. What then?
Such an assumption made all the circumstances more serious and explained partly the sending of the cask, but it did not, so far as the Inspector could see, throw light on the method of doing so. But when he came to the fourth paragraph he saw that it might easily bear two meanings. He read it again:—
‘I send you my best congratulations on the greatness of your coup, of which the visible evidence goes to you in the cask, and my only regret is that I shall be unable to be present to see you open it.’
This seemed at first sight obviously to mean congratulations on winning the lottery, the ‘visible evidence’ of which, namely £988 in gold, was in the cask. But did it really mean this? Did a more sinister interpretation not also offer itself? Suppose the body was the ‘visible evidence’? Suppose the death was the result, possibly indirect, of something that Felix had done. If money only was being sent, why should Le Gautier experience regret that he could not see the cask opened? But if a corpse was unexpectedly hidden there, would not that statement be clarified? It certainly looked so. One thing at least seemed clear. If a corpse had been sent to Felix, he must know something of the circumstances leading up to it. The Inspector spoke again:—
‘I am obliged for your statement, Mr. Felix, which, I may be allowed to say, I fully accept so far as it goes. But I fear you have not told me everything?’
‘I have told you everything material.’
‘Then I am afraid we are not in agreement as to what is material. At all events, it all goes back to my original question, “What is in the cask?”’
‘Do you not accept my statement that it is money?’
‘I accept your statement that you believe it to be money. I do not necessarily accept your authority for that belief.’
‘Well,’ said Felix, jumping up, ‘the cask’s in the coach-house and I see there is nothing for it but to go and open it now. I did not want to do so to-night, as I did not want to have all that gold lying loose about the house, but it’s clear nothing else will satisfy you.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Felix, I wanted you to make the suggestion. It is, as you say, the only way to settle the matter. I’ll call Sergeant Hastings here as a witness and we’ll go now.’
In silence, Felix got a lantern and led the way. They passed through a back-door into the yard and paused at the coach-house door.
‘Hold the light, will you, while I get the keys.’
Burnley threw a beam on the long running bolt that closed the two halves of the door. A padlock held the handle down on the staple. Felix inserted a key, but at his first touch the lock fell open.
‘Why, the thing’s not fastened!’ he cried, ‘and I locked it myself a few hours ago!’
He removed the padlock and withdrew the running bolt, swinging the large door open. Burnley flashed in the lantern.
‘Is the cask here?’ he said.
‘Yes, swinging there from the ceiling,’ answered Felix, as he came over from fastening back the door. Then his jaw dropped and he stared fixedly.
‘My heavens!’ he gasped, in a strangled tone, ‘it’s gone! The cask’s gone!’
CHAPTER VI
Astonishedas Burnley was himself at this unexpected development, he did not forget to keep a keen watch on Felix. That the latter was genuinely amazed and dumbfounded he could not doubt. Not only was his surprise too obviously real to be questioned, but his anger and annoyance at losing his money were clearly heartfelt.
‘I locked it myself. I locked it myself,’ he kept on repeating. ‘It was there at eight o’clock, and who could get at it since then? Why, no one but myself knew about it. How could any one else have known?’
‘That’s what we have to find out,’ returned the Inspector. ‘Come back to the house, Mr. Felix, and let us talk it over. We cannot do anything outside until it gets light.’
‘You may not know,’ he continued, ‘that you were followed here with your cask by one of our men, who watched you unloading it in the coach-house. He waited till you left with your friend Martin, a few minutes before nine. He then had to leave to advise me of the matter, but he was back at the house by ten. From ten till after eleven he watched alone, but since then the house has been surrounded by my men, as I rather expected to find a gang instead of a single man. Whoever took the cask must therefore have done so between nine and ten.’
Felix stared at his companion open-mouthed.
‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘You amaze me. How in thunder did you get on my track?’
Burnley smiled.
‘It is our business to know these things,’ he answered, ‘I knew all about how you got the cask away from the docks also.’
‘Well, thank Heaven! I told you the truth.’
‘It was the wise thing, Mr. Felix. I was able to check your statements as you went along, and I may say I felt really glad when I heard you were going to be straight. At the same time, sir, you will realise that my orders prevent me being satisfied until I have seen the contents of the cask.’
‘You cannot be more anxious to recover it than I am, for I want my money.’
‘Naturally,’ said Burnley, ‘but before we discuss the matter excuse me a moment. I want to give my fellows some instructions.’
He went out and called the men together. Sergeant Hastings and Constable Walker he retained, the rest he sent home in the car with instructions to return at eight o’clock in the morning. To Broughton he bade ‘Good-night,’ thanking him for his presence and help.
When he re-entered the study Felix made up the fire and drew forward the whisky and cigars.
‘Thank you, I don’t mind if I do,’ said the detective, sinking back into his chair. ‘Now, Mr. Felix, let us go over every one that knew about the cask being there.’
‘No one but myself and the carter, I assure you.’
‘Yourself, the carter, myself, and my man Walker—four to start with.’
Felix smiled.
‘As far as I am concerned,’ he said, ‘I left here, as you appear to know, almost immediately after the arrival of the cask and did not return till after one o’clock. All of that time I was in the company of Dr. William Martin and a number of mutual friends. So I can prove an alibi.’
Burnley smiled also.
‘For me,’ he said, ‘I am afraid you will have to take my word. The house was watched by Walker from ten o’clock, and we may take it as quite impossible that anything could have been done after that hour.’
‘There remains therefore the carter.’
‘There remains therefore the carter, and, as we must neglect no possibilities, I will ask you to give me the address of the cartage firm and any information about the man that you may have.’
‘John Lyons and Son, 127 Maddox Street, Lower Beechwood Road, was the contractor. The carter’s name, beyond Watty, I don’t know. He was a rather short, wiry chap, with a dark complexion and small black moustache.’
‘And now, Mr. Felix, can you not think of any others who may have known about the cask?’
‘There was no one,’ replied the other with decision.
‘I’m afraid we can’t assume that. We certainly can’t be sure.’
‘Who could there be?’
‘Well, your French friend. How do you know he didn’t write to others beside you?’
Felix sat up as if he had been shot.
‘By Jove!’ he cried, ‘it never entered my head. But it’s most unlikely—most unlikely.’
‘The whole thing’s most unlikely as far as that goes. Perhaps you are not aware that some one else was watching the house last evening?’
‘Good God, Inspector! What do you mean?’
‘Some one came to the lane shortly after your arrival with the cask. He waited and heard your conversation with your friend Martin. When you and your friend left, he followed you.’
Felix passed his hand over his forehead. His face was pale.
‘This business is too much for me,’ he said. ‘I wish to heaven I was out of it.’
‘Then help me to get you out of it. Think. Is there any one your friend knows that he might have written to?’
Felix remained silent for some moments.
‘There is only one man,’ he said at length in a hesitating voice, ‘that I know he is friendly with—a Mr. Percy Murgatroyd, a mining engineer who has an office in Westminster. But I don’t for one moment believe he had anything to say to it.’
‘Let me have his name and address, anyway.’
‘Four St. John’s Mansions, Victoria Street,’ said Felix, on referring to an address book.
‘You might write it down, if you please, and sign it.’
Felix looked up with a smile.
‘You generally write notes yourself, I should have thought?’
Burnley laughed.
‘You’re very quick, Mr. Felix. Of course it’s your handwriting I want also. But I assure you it’s only routine. Now please, think. Is there any one else?’
‘Not a living soul that I know of.’
‘Very well, Mr. Felix. I want to ask just one other question. Where did you stay in Paris?’
‘At the Hotel Continental.’
‘Thanks, that’s everything. And now, if you will allow me, I will take a few winks here in the chair till it gets light, and if you take my advice you will turn in.’
Felix looked at his watch.
‘Quarter-past three. Well, perhaps I shall. I’m only sorry I cannot offer you a bed as the house is absolutely empty, but if you will take a shakedown in the spare room——?’
‘No, no, thanks very much, I shall be all right here.’
‘As you wish. Good night.’
When Felix had left, the Inspector sat on in his chair smoking his strong black cigars and thinking. He did not sleep, though he remained almost motionless, only at long intervals rousing up to light another cigar, and it was not until five had struck that he got up and looked out of the window.
‘Light at last,’ he muttered, as he let himself quietly out of the back-door into the yard.
His first care was to make a thorough search in the yard and all the out-houses to ensure that the cask was really gone and not merely hidden in some other room. He was speedily satisfied on this point.
Since it was gone it was obvious that it must have been removed on a vehicle. His next point was to see how that vehicle got in, and if it had left any traces. And first as to the coach-house door.
He picked up the padlock and examined it carefully. It was an ordinary old-fashioned four-inch one. The ring had been forced open while locked, the hole in the opening end through which the bolt passes being torn away. Marks showed that this had been done by inserting some kind of lever between the body of the lock and the staple on the door, through which the ring had been passed. The Inspector looked round for the lever, but could not find it. He therefore made a note to search for such a tool, as if it bore marks which would fit those on the door, its evidence might be important.
There was next the question of the yard gate. This opened inwards in two halves, and was fastened by a wooden beam hinged through the centre to the edge of one of the half gates. When it was turned vertically the gates were free, but when horizontally it engaged with brackets, one on each half gate, thus holding them closed. It could be fastened by a padlock, but none was fitted. The gate now stood closed and with the beam lying in the brackets.
The Inspector took another note to find out if Mr. Felix had locked the beam, and then stood considering. It was clear the gate must have been closed from the inside after the vehicle had gone out. It must have been opened similarly on the latter’s arrival. Who had done this? Was Felix lying, and was there some one else in the house?
At first it seemed likely, and then the Inspector thought of another way. Constable Walker had climbed the wall. Why should not the person who opened and shut the gate have also done so? The Inspector moved slowly along the wall scrutinising it and the ground alongside it.
At first he saw nothing out of the common, but on retracing his steps he noticed, about three yards from the gate, two faint marks of mud or dust on the plaster. These were some six feet from the ground and about fifteen inches apart. On the soft soil which had filled in between the cobble stones in this disused part of the yard, about a foot from the wall and immediately under these marks, were two sharp-edged depressions, about two inches long by half an inch wide, arranged with their longer dimensions in line. Some one had clearly used a short ladder.
Inspector Burnley stood gazing at the marks. It struck him they were very far apart for a ladder. He measured the distance between them and found it was fifteen inches. Ladders, he knew, are about twelve.
Opening the gate he went to the outside of the wall. A grass plot ran alongside it here and the Inspector, stooping down, searched for corresponding marks. He was not disappointed. Two much deeper depressions showed where the ends of the ladder-like apparatus had sunk into the softer ground. These were not narrow like those in the yard, but rectangular and of heavier stuff, three inches by two, he estimated. He looked at the plaster on the wall above, but it was not till he examined it through his lens that he was satisfied it bore two faint scratches, corresponding in position to the muddy marks on the opposite side.
A further thought struck him. Scooping up a little soil from the grass, he went again into the yard and compared with his lens the soil and the dry mud of the marks on the plaster. As he had anticipated, they were identical.
He could now dimly reconstruct what had happened. Some one had placed a peculiar kind of ladder against the outside of the wall and presumably crossed it and opened the gate. The ladder had then been carried round and placed against the inside of the wall, but, probably by accident,opposite end up. The outside plaster was therefore clean but scraped, while that on the inside bore traces of the soil from the ends that had stood on the grass. In going out after barring the gate, he imagined the thief had pulled the ladder after him with a cord and passed it over the wall.
The Inspector returned to the grass and made a further search. Here he found confirmation of his theory in a single impression of one of the legs of the ladder some two feet six out from the wall. That, he decided, had been caused by the climber throwing down the ladder when leaving the yard. He also found three footmarks, but, unfortunately, they were so blurred as to be valueless.
He took out his notebook and made a sketch with accurate dimensions showing what he had learnt of the ladder—its length, width, and the shape of the legs at each end. Then bringing out the steps Felix had used to hang the chain blocks, he got on the wall. He examined the cement coping carefully, but without finding any further traces.
The yard, being paved, no wheel or footmarks were visible, but Burnley spent quite a long time crossing and recrossing it, examining every foot of ground in the hope of finding some object that had been dropped. Once before, in just such another case, he had had the luck to discover a trouser button concealed under some leaves, a find which had led to penal servitude for two men. On this occasion he was disappointed, his search being entirely unsuccessful.
He went out on the drive. Here were plenty of marks, but try as he would he could make nothing of them. The surface was covered thickly with fine gravel and only showed vague disturbances with no clear outlines. He began methodically to search the drive as he had done the yard. Every foot was examined in turn, Burnley gradually working down towards the gate. After he left the immediate neighbourhood of the house the gravel became much thinner, but the surface below was hard and bore no marks. He continued perseveringly until he got near the gate, and then he had some luck.
In the lawn between the house and the road some work was in progress. It seemed to Burnley that a tennis or croquet ground was being made. From the corner of this ground a recently filled in cut ran across the drive and out to the hedge adjoining the lane. Evidently a drain had just been laid.