The Ponson Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts



Contents

   I. Mystery at Luce Manor
  II. A Sinister Suggestion
 III. Hoaxed?
  IV. Inspector Tanner Grows Suspicious
   V. Inspector Tanner Becomes Convinced
  VI. What Cosgrove Had to Tell
 VII. Cosgrove’s Trip North
VIII. Tanner Finds Himself Duped
  IX. Lois Drew Takes a Hand
   X. A Woman’s Wit
  XI. A Fresh Start
 XII. A Stern Chase
XIII. Blackmail?
 XIV. A Dramatic Discovery
  XV. In the Luce Manor Boathouse
 XVI. Conclusion



CHAPTER I.

Mystery at Luce Manor

The dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house
of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out
with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and
blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit
of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to
stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of
upper-class rural England.

This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in
front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s
rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly
in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy
curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in
all the county round for their age and size. At the side of the house,
and reached through a rose pergola, was the walled English garden,
with its masses of colour, its laden bushes, and its range of glass
houses. In front, beyond the lawn, whose oaks and elms stood singly
like sentinels guarding the house, the country rolled away to a line
of distant hills, while to the left, an opening in the trees gave a
glimpse of the Cranshaw River, with behind a near horizon of
tree-covered slopes.

Within, in a large room panelled in black oak, the master of the house
sat at dinner. He was alone, the only other members of the household,
his wife and his daughter Enid, being from home on a visit. Sir
William Ponson, a self-made man, had retired from business some ten
years before our story opens and, selling his interest in the large
ironworks of which he was head, had bought Luce Manor and settled down
to end his days in the rôle of a country squire. Though obviously a
_nouveau riche_, and still retaining the somewhat brusque manners of
his hard, northern upbringing, he had nevertheless been received with
more cordiality into the local society than usually happens in such
cases. For Sir William, though he had thus risen in the social scale,
remained a simple, honourable, kindly old man, a little headstrong and
short tempered perhaps, but anxious to be just, and quick to apologise
if he found himself in the wrong.

It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond
of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had
rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not
good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in
perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the
neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that,
of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his
old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of
whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full
sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled
over his household with leisurely, easy-going sway.

Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty
summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was
yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning
smile. But it was her wonderful charm that endeared her to those with
whom she came in contact, as well as the sweetness and kindliness of
her disposition. That she was unmarried was only explained by the fact
that the man to whom she had been engaged had been killed during the
Great War. Enid and her father were close comrades and allies. She
adored him, while Sir William’s chief thought was centred in his
daughter, upon whom he thought the sun rose and set.

When the family were alone it was Sir William’s custom after dinner to
join his wife and Enid in the music room, where for hours the latter
would sing and play, while her father smoked cigar after cigar, and
the elder woman placidly knitted or crocheted. But tonight, being
entirely alone, he retired at once from the table to his library,
where he would sit, reading and smoking, till about ten or later he
would ring for Parkes, the butler, to bring him his nightly tumbler of
hot punch.

But ten came, and half past ten, and eleven, and there was no ring.

‘Boss is late tonight, Mr Parkes,’ said Innes, Sir William’s valet, as
he and the butler sat in the latter’s room over a bottle of Sir
William’s old port, and a couple of Sir William’s three and sixpenny
cigars.

‘Sir William _is_ behind his usual hour,’ admitted the butler in a
slightly chilly tone. Innes had followed his master from the north and
was, as Mr Parkes put it, ‘well in’ with him. The butler therefore
thought it politic to be ‘well in’ with Innes, and was usually affable
in a condescending way. But the latter’s habit of speaking of Sir
William as ‘the boss,’ grated on Parkes’s sensitive ears.

The two chatted amicably enough, and under the influence of wine and
tobacco time passed unnoticed until once again the clock struck.

‘That’s half-past eleven,’ said Parkes. ‘I have never known Sir
William so late before. He is usually in bed by now.’

‘“Early to bed, early to rise,”’ quoted the valet. ‘There’s no
accounting for tastes, Mr Parkes. I’d like to see you or me going to
bed at ten-thirty and getting up at six when we needn’t.’

‘I don’t hold with unnecessarily early hours myself,’ the other
agreed, and then, after a pause: ‘I think I’ll go and see if he wants
anything. It’s not like him to retire without having his punch.’

‘Whatever you think, Mr Parkes, but for me, I could do here well
enough for another hour or more.’

Without replying, Parkes left the room. Reaching the library door, he
knocked discreetly and then entered. The electric lights were switched
on and everything looked as usual, but the room was empty. The butler
moved on, and opening a door which led to the smoking room, passed in.
The lights were off here, as they were also in the billiard room,
which he next visited.

‘He must have gone up to bed,’ thought Parkes, and returning to his
room, spoke to Innes.

‘I can’t find Sir William about anywhere below stairs, and he hasn’t
had his punch. I wish you’d have a look whether he hasn’t gone to
bed.’

The valet left the room.

‘He’s not upstairs, Mr Parkes,’ he said, returning a few moments
later. ‘And he’s not been either so far as I can see. The lights are
off and nothing’s been touched.’

‘But where is he? He’s never been so late ringing for his punch
before.’

‘I’m blessed if I know. Maybe, Mr Parkes, we should have another look
round?’

‘It might be as well.’

The two men returned to the library. It was still empty, and they
decided to make a tour of the lower rooms. In each they switched on
the lights and had a look round, but without result. Sir William had
disappeared.

‘Come upstairs,’ said Parkes.

They repeated their search through music room, bedrooms,
dressing-rooms, and passages, but all to no purpose. They could find
no trace of their master.

Mr Parkes was slightly perturbed. An idea had recurred to him which
had entered his mind on various previous occasions. He glanced
inquiringly at the valet, as if uncertain whether or not to unburden
his mind. Finally he said in a low tone:

‘Has it ever struck you, Innes, that Sir William was apoplectic?’

‘Apoplectic?’ returned the other. ‘Why, no, I don’t think it has.’

‘Well, it has me, and more than once. If he’s annoyed he gets that
red. I’ve thought to myself when he has got into a temper about
something, “Maybe,” I’ve thought, “maybe some of these days you’ll pop
off in a fit if you’re not careful.”’

‘You don’t say, Mr Parkes,’ exclaimed Innes, in a tone of thrilled
interest.

‘I do. I’ve thought it. And I’ve thought too,’ the butler went on
impressively, ‘that maybe something like this would happen: that we’d
miss him, and go and look, and find him lying somewhere unconscious.’

‘Bless my soul, Mr Parkes, I hope not.’

‘I hope not too. But I’ve thought it.’ Mr Parkes shook his head
gravely. ‘And what’s more,’ he went on after a few moments, ‘keeping
this idea in view, I doubt if our search was sufficiently
comprehensive. If Sir William had fallen behind a piece of furniture
we might not have seen him.’

‘We could go round again, Mr Parkes, if you think that.’

This proposition appealing favourably to the butler, a second and more
thorough search was made. But it was as fruitless as before. There was
no trace of Sir William.

And then the valet made a discovery. Off the passage leading to the
library was a small cloak-room. Innes, who had looked into the latter,
now returned to the butler.

‘He’s gone out, Mr Parkes. A soft felt hat and his loose black cape
are missing out of the cloakroom.’

‘Gone out, is he? That’s not like him either. Are you sure of that?’

‘Certain. I saw the coat and hat no longer ago than this evening just
before dinner. They were hanging in that room then. They’re gone now.’

The passage in which they were standing, and off which opened the
smoking room, library, billiard room and this cloakroom, ran on past
the doors of these rooms, and ended in a small conservatory, from
which an outer door led into the grounds. The two men walked to this
door and tried it. It was closed, but not fastened.

‘He’s gone out sure enough,’ said Parkes. ‘I locked that door myself
when I went round after dinner.’

They stepped outside. The night was fine, but very dark. There was no
moon, and the sky was overcast. A faint air was stirring, but hardly
enough to move the leaves. Everything was very still, except for the
low, muffled roar of the Cranshaw waterfall, some half mile or more
away.

‘I expect he’s stepped over to Hawksworth’s,’ said Parkes at last. ‘He
sometimes drops in of an evening. But he’s never been so late as
this.’

‘Maybe there’s a party of some kind on, and when he turned up they’ve
had him stay.’

‘It may be,’ Parkes admitted. ‘We may as well go in anyway.’

They returned to the butler’s room, and resumed their interrupted
discussion.

Twelve struck, then half-past, then one.

Innes yawned.

‘I wouldn’t mind how soon I went to bed, Mr Parkes. What do you feel
like?’

‘I don’t feel sleepy,’ the other returned, and then, after a pause: ‘I
don’t mind confessing I am not quite easy about Sir William. I would
be glad he had returned.’

‘You’re afraid—of what you were saying?’

‘I am. I don’t deny it. I feel apprehensive.’

‘Supposing we were to get a couple of lanterns and have a walk round
outside?’

The butler considered this suggestion.

‘I am of opinion better not,’ he said at last. ‘If Sir William found
us so engaged, he would be very annoyed.’

‘Maybe you’re right, Mr Parkes. What do you suggest?’

‘I think we had better wait as we are a while longer. Take another
cigar, and make yourself comfortable.’

As both men settled themselves in easy chairs, the conversation began
to wane, and before the clock struck again their steady breathing
showed that each had adopted the most efficient known way of passing
monotonous time.

About six o’clock the butler awoke with a start. He felt cold and
stiff, and for a moment could not recall what had happened. Then,
remembering, he woke the valet.

‘Six o’clock, Innes. We had better go and see if Sir William has
returned.’

They retraced their round of the previous night, but everything was as
before. They could find no trace of their master.

‘It’s daylight,’ went on Parkes, when their search was complete. ‘We
might have a walk out now, I think.’

Leaving by the small conservatory door at the side of the
billiard-room wing, they walked down the drive. The sun had just
risen—a glorious, ruddy ball in the clearest of blue skies, giving
promise of a perfect day. Everything was delightfully fresh. The
sparkling dew-drops made the scene fairylike, and the clean, aromatic
smell of the trees and earth was in their nostrils. Not a breath of
wind stirred, and the air was full of the songs of birds, with, like a
mighty but subdued dominant pedal, the sullen roar of the distant
fall.

After passing between the two rows of magnificent beeches, whose
branches met over the drive, they reached the massive iron gates
leading on to the road. These, as was usual at night, were closed, but
not locked.

There being no sign of the missing man, they retraced their steps and
took a narrow path which led, through a door in the wall surrounding
the grounds, to the same road. This door was also closed, but
unlocked. Here again their quest was fruitless.

Returning to the house they made a more general survey, visiting the
terrace and formal Dutch garden below, the rose pergola, the glass
house, and the various arbours—all those places in which a sudden whim
might have induced the master of these delights to smoke or stroll in
the pleasant evening air. But all to no purpose. Sir William Ponson
had vanished.

Parkes looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past seven. He
was beginning a remark to Innes when the latter suddenly slapped his
thigh and interrupted.

‘I’ll lay you a sovereign to five bob, Mr Parkes, I know where the
boss is. He’s gone in to Mr Austin’s, and he’s kept him all night.’

Austin Ponson was Sir William’s son. In many ways he was a
disappointment to his father. On leaving Cambridge he had moved to
chambers in London, ostensibly to read for the bar. But though he had
read, it was not law, and after a couple of years of wasted time, and
a scene with his father, he had dropped the pretence of legal work and
turned himself openly to the pursuit of his own special interests.
Finding the boy was determined to go his own way, Sir William had
decided discretion was the better part of valour, and withdrawing his
opposition to Austin’s plans, had instead enabled him to carry them
out, increasing his allowance to £1000 a year. Austin was extremely
clever and versatile. Something of a dreamer, his opinions and ideals
irritated his practical father almost beyond endurance. He was a
Socialist in politics, and held heterodox views on the relations of
capital and labour. He read deeply on these subjects, and wrote
thoughtful articles on them for the better class papers. He had
produced a couple of social problem novels which, though they had had
small sales, had been well reviewed. But his chief study and interest
was natural history, or rather that branch of it relating to the life
and habits of disease-bearing insects. To facilitate research work in
this direction, he had thrown up his London chambers and, partly
because his relations with his father were too strained to live with
him with any pleasure, and partly because the latter’s residence in
Gateshead was unsuitable for his hobby, he had taken a house with a
good garden near Halford. That was eleven years ago, and he had lived
there with an elderly couple—butler and housekeeper—ever since. Though
caring nothing for society, he was not unpopular among his neighbours,
being unassuming in manner, as well as kindly and generous in
disposition. When his father had signified his intention of retiring,
Austin had suggested the former’s taking Luce Manor, which was then
for sale. The two had agreed to sink their differences, and by
avoiding controversial subjects, they continued on good though not
very cordial terms. When, therefore, Innes suggested Sir William had
gone to visit his son, Parkes could not but agree this might be the
truth.

‘It’s not like him all the same,’ the butler went on, ‘he never would
walk two miles at night when he could have had a car by just ringing
for it.’

‘He’s done it, I bet, all the same,’ returned Innes, ‘I’ll lay you
what you like. There was something on between them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parkes asked sharply.

‘Why, this. I didn’t tell you what I heard—it wasn’t no business of
mine—but I’ll tell you now. You remember Mr Austin dining here last
Sunday evening? The boss, as you know, had the hump all day, but Mr
Austin when he came first was as sweet as you please. After dinner
they went to the library. Well, sir, I was passing the door about
half-past nine or maybe later, and I heard their voices inside. I
judged they were having a bit of a row. I heard Mr Austin shouting,
“My God, sir, she isn’t!” and then I heard the mumble of Sir William’s
voice, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Well, that was all of that.
Then about half-past ten, when Mr Austin was leaving, I was in the
hall, and got him his coat, and he was just sort of green about the
gills, as if he had been laid out in the ring. He’s always pleasant
enough, but that night he took his coat and hat as if I was a blooming
hat-stand, and out to the car without a word, and a look on his face
as if he’d seen death. And Sir William hasn’t been the same since
either. Oh yes! I guess they’ve had some sort of a dust up.’

Parkes whistled.

‘About the girl?’ he said, with a sharp glance.

‘So _I_ thought. Miss Lois Drew may be a very nice young lady, and I
don’t say she’s not, but she’s hardly the kind of daughter-in-law the
old man would be looking out for.’

‘It’s a fact, Innes. You’re right. Now if it had been my Lady Evelyn,
things would have been different.’

‘You bet,’ said the valet.

The men’s allusion was to a subject of common gossip in Halford.
Austin Ponson was universally believed to be in love with the daughter
of the local bookseller. And as universally, it was assumed that such
a match would have the determined opposition of Sir William.

‘I think we might send in to Mr Austin’s, and find out,’ went on
Parkes after a pause. ‘If he’s there no harm’s done, and if not, why,
it might be just as well to tell Mr Austin.’

‘Well, I’ll go in and see him if you think so.’

‘I would be glad. Hughes can run you in in the small car.’

Some twenty minutes later Innes rang at the door of a pleasant looking
little villa on the outskirts of Halford.

‘Is Mr Austin about yet, Mrs Currie?’ he asked, as an elderly woman,
with a kindly, dependable face, answered.

‘He’s not down yet, Mr Innes. Will you come in?’

The valet answered her question with another.

‘Sir William didn’t call last night, I suppose?’

‘Sir William? No, Mr Innes, I haven’t seen Sir William for over a
month.’

‘Well, I’ll come in, thank you, and when Mr Austin’s ready I’d like to
see him.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re waiting.’

When some twenty minutes later Austin Ponson came into the room, Innes
looked at him in some surprise. As a rule Austin was a man of easy and
leisurely manners, suave, polished, and unhurried. He had an air of
comfortable and good-humoured contentment, that made him a pleasant
and soothing companion. But this morning he was strangely different.
His face was pale, and dark circles below his eyes pointed to his
having passed a sleepless night. His manner was nervous, and Innes
noticed his hand shaking. When he spoke it was abruptly and as if he
were upset.

‘Good morning, Innes. You wanted to see me?’

‘Sorry for troubling you so early, sir, but Mr Parkes sent me in with
a message.’

‘Yes?’

‘It was to ask if you knew anything of Sir William, sir. He went out
late last night without saying anything about it, and he has not
turned up since, and Mr Parkes was a little anxious about him in case
he might have met with an accident.’

A look almost of fear appeared in the other’s eyes.

‘And how should I know anything about him?’ he answered quickly, and
Innes noticed that his lips were dry. ‘He did not come here. Have you
tried at Mr Hawksworth’s or Lord Eastmere’s? He has dropped in to see
them often in the evening, hasn’t he?’

‘That is so, sir, but we thought we had better consult you before
raising an alarm. As you say, sir, Sir William has often gone over to
these places in the evening, but never without saying he would be
late, and he never stopped all night.’

‘Oh well, I expect he’s done it this time. But you had better go round
and see. Stay, I’ll go with you myself. Wait a few minutes while I get
some breakfast.’

Twenty minutes later they were on the road. They called at the two
houses mentioned, but at neither had anything been heard of Sir
William. It was nearly nine when they reached Luce Manor. Parkes
hurried to meet them.

‘Any news, Parkes?’ asked Austin as he entered the house. He had
recovered his composure, and seemed more at ease.

‘No, sir,’ replied the butler, ‘but we’ve made a discovery—just before
you came.’

Again the flash of something like fear showed in the other’s eyes. He
did not speak, and Parkes went on:

‘About ten minutes ago, sir, Smith, the under-gardener, who is boatman
also, came up here asking for Sir William. I saw him, and he said he
had just discovered that one of the boats was missing—stolen, he said.
I kept him, sir, in case if you came back with Innes you might like to
speak to him.’

Austin Ponson’s face paled as if this news was a shock.

‘Good Heavens! Parkes,’ he stammered, ‘you don’t mean to suggest—’

‘I thought, sir,’ resumed the butler smoothly, ‘that maybe Sir William
had taken a sudden notion to go over and see Dr Graham. Sometimes, as
you know, sir, gentlemen like to consult a medical man privately. He
might have rowed himself across the river for a short cut.’

Austin seemed relieved.

‘Yes, yes, quite possible,’ he said. ‘But we ought to make sure. Run
round, Innes, will you, in the car and find out.’

‘Will you see Smith, sir?’ asked the butler when Innes had gone.

Austin seemed to awake out of a reverie.

‘Yes—oh yes, I suppose so,’ he answered. ‘Yes certainly. Bring him
in.’

A small, stout man, with a short brown beard stepped up. He was, he
explained, boatman as well as under-gardener, and it was his custom
each morning to visit the boathouse, give the boats a run over with a
cloth, brush the cushions, and leave everything ready in case a boat
might be required during the day. On this morning he had reached the
boathouse as usual, and was surprised to find the door unlocked.
Entering, he had at once noticed that the water gate connecting the
basin in the house with the river was fully open, and then he saw that
the _Alice_, the smallest of the skiffs, was missing. A glance at the
rack had shown that the oars and rowlocks had also gone. He had looked
round generally, but could not find any other trace of disturbance. He
had immediately come up to the house to inform Sir William.

Austin Ponson had listened carefully to the man’s statement, and he
now asked a question:

‘You say you were surprised to find the boathouse door unlocked. I
have been at the boathouse scores of times, and I never knew it to be
locked. Why should it have been locked then?’

‘I lock it, sir,’ the man replied, ‘every night at dusk. Every morning
I open it, and it stays open through the day.’

‘And did you lock it last night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘About what time?’

‘About 8.00 or 8.30, I should think.’

‘Who else has a key?’

‘No one but Sir William, sir.’

Austin turned to the butler.

‘Do you know where he keeps this key?’

‘In the drawer of his writing table, sir.’

‘See if you can find it now.’

In a few moments Parkes returned. Several keys, each attached to its
neatly lettered block of wood, were in the drawer, but that of the
boathouse door was missing.

‘That will do, thank you, Smith,’ Austin went on, then, when the man
had withdrawn, he turned to the butler. He still seemed nervous and
upset.

‘It seems pretty clear Sir William has gone out on the river; now what
on earth would he do that for? I wish that man would come back from
the doctor’s.’

‘He won’t be long, sir. Say ten minutes there and ten back, and five
to make inquiries. He should be here in five or six minutes.’

In about that time Innes returned. Sir William had not called at Dr
Graham’s.

Austin and Parkes exchanged troubled glances. The same terrible idea
which had been in their minds since the discovery of the missing boat
was forcing itself to the front.

The River Cranshaw was a broad and sluggish stream at Halford, and for
the two miles or so of its course to the point where it passed Luce
Manor. But just below Sir William’s grounds there was a curious
outcrop of rock, and the waters had cut for themselves a narrow
channel down which, when the river was full, they raced at ever
increasing speed till they reached the Cranshaw Falls. Here they
leaped over a ledge of rock, not very deep—not, in fact, more than
four or five feet—but the river bed at the foot, and for some distance
downstream, was so full of huge boulders that the waters danced and
swirled, and were churned into a mass of foam as great as might have
been expected from a fall of five or six times the height. A dangerous
place at which there had been more than one accident. On the last
occasion, some twenty years earlier, a party of a man and two girls
had allowed themselves to drift into the narrow channel, and in spite
of their frantic efforts, their boat had been carried over and all
were drowned. The bodies, two of them frightfully disfigured, were
found in the smooth water below the rapids. As at the present time,
there had just been a severe thunderstorm followed by torrential rain
over the whole country, the river was in flood, and the fear that a
similar fate might have overtaken Sir William was only too reasonable.

For a few moments none of the men spoke. Then Austin, pulling himself
together with an effort, said in a low tone, ‘We must go down the
river, I’m afraid. Better bring Smith.’

The four men walked to the boathouse, and then turning downstream,
continued their course along the bank. Soon they came to the rocky
ground where, from 300 feet or more in width, the river narrowed in to
about sixty. There was a strong fresh, and the water seethed and
eddied as its speed increased, while the roar of the fall grew louder.

Just above the fall a two-arched bridge carried a road across the
river, a huge rock in midstream parting the current, and bearing the
masonry pier. Here the men divided, the butler and Smith crossing to
the opposite bank, and Austin and the valet remaining on the Luce
Manor side. Then they pushed on till they reached the fall itself.

The river was even higher than they had realised, almost as high as
during the winter rains. It went over the ledge in a
smoothly-burnished curve, then plunging into the mass of boulders, was
broken into a thousand whirling eddies, all seething beneath leaping
masses of foam. As the men looked at it their hearts sank. A skilful
Canadian lumberman on a raft or in a strong, seaworthy boat might have
negotiated the place in safety, but for an elderly business man like
Sir William, in a frail skiff, only one end seemed possible.

Slowly they walked on, examining with anxious eyes the swirling flood.
And then at last they saw what they were in search of. Near the end of
the rapids, where the river had quieted down to a more even flow, the
bow of a boat was sticking up out of the water against a rock.
Hastening forward they caught their breath as they saw a little
farther downstream a dark shapeless object, lying almost submerged in
a backwater. It was the body of a man.

It was obvious that nothing in the nature of help could be given, as
the man must have been dead long since. The body was on the Luce Manor
side of the river, and Parkes and Smith hurrying round, the four
stepped into the pool, and with reverent care lifted it out and laid
it on the grass. One glance at the face was enough. It was that of Sir
William Ponson.



CHAPTER II.

A Sinister Suggestion

For some moments the men stood, reverent, and bareheaded, looking down
at the motionless form. The face was disfigured, the left cheek from
the ear to the mouth being cut and bruised, evidently from contact
with a boulder. The left arm also was broken, and lay twisted at an
unnatural angle with the body.

At last Austin made a move. Taking out his handkerchief, he stooped
and reverently covered the dead face.

‘We must send for the police, I’m afraid.’ He spoke in a low tone, and
seemed deeply affected. ‘You go, Innes, will you? Take the large car
and run them back to the bridge. You had better bring Dr Ames too, I
suppose, and a stretcher. Also send this wire to Mr Cosgrove. We’ll
wait here till you come.’

He scribbled a telegram on a leaf of his pocket book:

  ‘To Cosgrove Ponson, 174B Knightsbridge, London.—Terrible accident.
  My father drowned in river. Tell my mother at Lancaster Gate, then
  come.—Austin.’

Cosgrove Ponson was the only son of Sir William’s younger brother, and
was consequently cousin to Austin and Enid. These three with Lady
Ponson were now the only living members of the family. Cosgrove was a
man of about five-and-thirty who had inherited some money from his
father, and lived the careless life of a man about town. Though he had
never got on well with Austin, he had been a favourite of Sir
William’s, and had spent a good deal of time, on and off, at Luce
Manor.

When the valet had gone Austin sat down on a rock and, leaning his
head in his hands, seemed to give himself up to profound meditation.
The others, uncertain what to do, withdrew to a short distance, not
liking either to intrude, or, after what Austin had said, to leave
altogether. So they waited until after about an hour Innes reappeared,
and with him Dr Ames, a sergeant of police, and two constables
carrying a stretcher.

‘Innes has told us, Mr Ponson. A truly terrible affair!’ said the
doctor, with real sympathy in his voice. He shook hands with Austin,
while the sergeant saluted respectfully.

‘I’m afraid, doctor, you can do nothing. He was dead when we found
him.’

‘Ah, I imagined so from what your man said.’ Dr Ames knelt down and
lifted the handkerchief from the battered features. ‘Yes, you are
right. He has been dead for some hours.’ He replaced the handkerchief,
and rose to his feet. ‘I suppose, Mr Ponson, you will have him taken
to Luce Manor? There is no reason why that should not be done at
once.’

‘I was only waiting for the stretcher.’

The doctor nodded and took charge.

‘Your stretcher, sergeant,’ he said.

The remains were lifted on, and slowly the melancholy little
procession started. Before they left, the sergeant asked who had made
the tragic discovery, and was shown exactly where the body had been
found. One constable was left with instructions to see that no one
touched the boat, and the sergeant and the other policeman walked with
the party, taking their turns in carrying the sad burden. After Austin
had instructed the butler to hurry on and prepare for them at the
house, no one spoke.

When the body had been laid on the bed in Sir William’s room, and the
little excitement caused by the arrival had subsided, the sergeant
approached Austin Ponson.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to
make a report about this, and I’m bound to ask a few questions. I
hope, sir, you won’t mind?’

‘Of course not, sergeant. I understand you must do your duty.’

‘Thank you, sir. May I ask then if you can explain how this accident
occurred?’

‘No more than you can, sergeant. I only know that Innes, Sir William’s
valet, came to my house when I was dressing this morning, to know if
Sir William was with me. He said he had gone out after dinner last
night without leaving any message, and they didn’t know where he was.
I came back with Innes, and they had just then learnt that the boat
was missing. We thought perhaps my father had rowed across the river
to see Dr Graham, and I sent round to inquire, but when we learnt he
hadn’t been there we began to fear the worst. We therefore went down
the river to see if we could find anything.’

‘And when, sir, did you see him last?’

‘On Sunday evening—three days ago. I dined here, and left about ten or
later.’

‘And was he in his usual health and spirits then?’

‘Yes, I noticed nothing out of the common.’

‘And he said nothing then, or indeed at any time, that would explain
the matter?’

‘Not a thing. He seemed perfectly normal in every way.’

‘Very strange affair, sir, where he could have been going to. Was he
skilful with a boat?’

‘No, I should say not. He could row a little, but not well. He did not
specially care for it. I rarely knew him to go out for pleasure.’

‘Thank you, sir. With your permission I will see now what Mr Parkes
and the other men can tell me.’

He heard the butler’s story, then Innes’s and lastly Smith’s. He was a
young and intelligent officer, and was anxious to send in a complete
explanation of the tragedy in his report, but he was almost equally
desirous not to inconvenience or offend Austin Ponson, whom he
supposed would succeed Sir William and become a magistrate and a
leading man in the district. Though he had admired Sir William and was
genuinely shocked and sorry about the accident, yet he was human, and
he could not but recognise the affair gave him a chance of coming
under the special notice of his superiors.

Up to a certain point he was clear in his own mind what had occurred.
Sir William had left his house sometime between 8.45 and 11.30 the
previous evening, and had gone down to the boathouse with his key,
entered, opened the water gate and taken out the _Alice_. In the
darkness, and probably underestimating the amount of fresh in the
river, he had allowed himself to be carried into the narrow channel.
Once there he had practically no chance. The place was notoriously
dangerous.

So much was plain enough, but the sergeant was bothered by the
question, what had Sir William gone out for? No one had as yet thrown
any light on this.

Calling Dr Ames, who, not having had any breakfast, was just finishing
a somewhat substantial snack in the dining-room, the sergeant
explained that he wished to go through Sir William’s pockets, if the
doctor would come and assist him. They accordingly made their way
upstairs and began their search.

The pockets contained just those articles which a man in Sir William’s
position would naturally be expected to carry, with one exception.
Besides the bunch of keys, handkerchief, watch, cigar-case, money and
such like, there was a very singular object—nothing more nor less than
a small-sized six-chambered Colt’s revolver, unloaded. There were no
shells, either full or empty, and the barrel was clean, showing it had
not been fired.

‘By Jove! Sergeant,’ Dr Ames exclaimed in a low tone. ‘That’s
surprising.’

‘Surprising, sir? I should just think so! You never know, sir, about
_anybody_. Sir William was the last man, I should have said, to go
about armed.’

‘But he wasn’t armed, sergeant,’ rejoined the doctor. ‘A man with a
revolver is not armed unless he has something to fire out of it.
That’s no more an arm than any other bit of old iron.’

The sergeant hesitated.

‘That’s so, sir, in a way, of course. Still—you can hardly think of
anyone carrying an empty revolver. I expect he must have had the habit
of carrying shells, but by some oversight forgot them yesterday.’

‘Possibly. There doesn’t seem to be much else of interest anyway.’

‘No, sir, that’s a fact.’ The sergeant, having emptied all the
pockets, began laboriously to make a list of the articles he had
found. Dr Ames had taken up a small diary or engagement book, and was
rather aimlessly turning over the sodden leaves. Suddenly he gave an
exclamation.

‘Look here, sergeant,’ he whispered. ‘Here’s what you have been
wanting.’

There was a division in the book for each day of the year, with notes
of engagements or other matters in most. At the bottom of the space
for the previous day—the portion which would probably refer to the
evening—was written the words: ‘Graham, 9.00 p.m.’

‘There it is,’ went on Dr Ames. ‘That’s where he was going last night.
He evidently intended to consult Dr Graham privately. As it was too
far to walk round by the road, and he didn’t want to get a car out, he
thought he would take a short cut by rowing across the river.’

The sergeant made a gesture of satisfaction.

‘You have it, sir. That’s just what he’s done. I don’t mind saying
that was bothering me badly. But now, thanks to you, sir, the whole
thing is cleared up. I’ll go over to Dr Graham’s directly, and see if
I can’t learn something about it from him.’

‘I have an operation in an hour and I must go back to Halford, but
I’ll come out again in the afternoon, and have another look at the
body. If you call in with me tonight I’ll let you have the
certificate.’

‘There’ll have to be an inquest, of course, sir.’

‘Of course. It should be arranged for tomorrow.’

‘It’ll be for the coroner to fix the time, but I would suggest eleven
or twelve. I’ll call round tonight anyway sir, and let you know.’

Taking Smith, the gardener-boatman, and the constable who had helped
to carry the body, the sergeant returned to the site of the accident.
The river was falling rapidly, and with some trouble the four men
succeeded in getting the damaged boat ashore. Smith identified it
immediately as the _Alice_. A careful search in the neighbourhood
brought to light the rudder and bottom boards—each split and torn from
the rocks. But there was no sign of the oars or rowlocks.

It was useless, the sergeant thought, to look for the rowlocks. They
would be at the bottom of the river. But the oars should be
recoverable. Sending the two men downstream to search for them, he
himself took the Argyle, which Austin had left for the convenience of
the police, and drove to Dr Graham’s. That gentleman had not heard the
news and was profoundly shocked, but when the sergeant went on to ask
his question, he denied emphatically that there had been any
appointment for the previous evening. Sir William, he stated, was a
personal and valued friend, and they had often visited at each other’s
houses, but he had never met the deceased in a professional capacity.
He believed Dr Ames was Sir William’s medical adviser.

‘But, of course,’ Dr Graham concluded, ‘it is quite possible he may
have wished to consult privately. He knows I am usually to be found in
my study about nine, and he may have intended to walk up unobserved by
the path through the shrubbery, come to the study direct, and enter by
the French window.’

‘Very likely, sir,’ returned the sergeant, as he thanked Dr Graham and
took his leave.

His next visit was to the coroner, who also was much shocked at the
news. After some discussion the inquest was arranged for twelve
o’clock the following morning, provided this would suit the chief
constable of the district, who might wish to be present.

‘It will be a purely formal business, I suppose, sergeant?’ the
coroner observed as the other rose to take his leave. ‘There are no
doubtful or suspicious circumstances?’

‘None, sir. The affair is as clear as day. But, sir, I have been
thinking the question may arise as to whether boating should not be
prohibited altogether on that stretch of the river.’

‘Possibly it should, but I think we may leave that to the jury.’

The sergeant saluted and withdrew. Again taking the car, he reached
the police station as the clocks were striking half-past two. Going to
the telephone, he rang up the chief constable—to whom he had
telephoned immediately on hearing of the accident—and reported what he
had learnt. The official replied that he would be over in time for the
inquest.

An hour later the two constables who had been sent to search the lower
reaches of the river arrived at the police station. They had found the
missing oars, and had taken them to Luce Manor, where they had been
identified by Smith, the boatman. They had, it appeared, gone ashore
close beside each other nearly a mile below the falls, and two points
about the affair had interested the men. First, the oars had been
washed up on the left bank, while the other things had been deposited
on the right, and second, while all the latter were torn and damaged
by the rocks, neither oar was injured or even marked.

‘What do you make of that, Cowan?’ the sergeant asked when these facts
had been put before him.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what the boatman says, and it seems right enough.
You know that there road bridge above the falls? There’s two arches in
it. Well, Smith says he’ll lay ten bob the boat went through one arch
and the oars the other. That would look right enough to me too,
because the right side is more shallow and more rocky than the other,
and more likely for to break anything up. The left side is the main
channel, as you might say, and the oars might get down it without
damage. At least, that’s what Smith says, and it looks like enough to
me too.’

‘H’m,’ the sergeant mused, ‘seems reasonable.’ The sergeant knew more
about sea currents than river. He had been brought up on the coast,
and he had learnt that tidal currents having the same set will deposit
objects at or about the same place. It seemed to him likely that a
similar rule would apply to rivers. The body, boat, rudder, and bottom
boards had all gone ashore at one place. The oars also were found not
far apart, but they were a long way from the other things. What more
likely than the boatman’s suggestion that the two lots of objects had
become sufficiently divided in the upper reach to pass through
different arches of the bridge? This would separate them completely
enough to account for the positions in which they were found. Yes, it
certainly seemed reasonable.

And then another idea struck him, and he slapped his thigh.

‘By Jehosaphat, Cowan!’ he cried, ‘that’s just what’s happened, and it
explains the only thing we didn’t know about the whole affair. Those
oars went through the other arch right enough. And why? Why, because
Sir William had lost them coming down the river. That’s why he was
lost himself. I’ll lay you anything those oars got overboard, and he
couldn’t find them in the dark.’

To the sergeant, who was not without imagination, there came the dim
vision of an old, grey-haired man, adrift, alone and at night, in a
light skiff on the swirling flood—borne silently and resistlessly
onward, while he struggled desperately in the shrouding darkness to
recover the oars which had slipped from his grasp, and which were
floating somewhere close by. He could almost see the man’s frantic,
unavailing efforts to reach the bank, almost hear his despairing cries
rising above the rush of the waters and the roar of the fall, as more
and more swiftly he was swept on to his doom. Almost he could
visualise the tossing, spinning boat disappear under the bridge,
emerge, hang poised as if breathless for the fraction of a second
above the fall, then with an unhurried, remorseless swoop, plunge into
the boiling cauldron below. . . . A horrible fantasy truly, but to the
sergeant it seemed a picture of the actual happening.

But why, he wondered, had both the oars taken the other arch? It would
have been easier to explain the loss of one. With an unskilful boatman
such a thing not unfrequently occurred. But to lose both involved some
special cause. Possibly, he thought, Sir William had had some sudden
start, had moved sharply, almost capsizing the boat, and in making an
involuntary effort to right it had let go with both hands.

He was still puzzling over the problem when a note was handed him
which, when he had read it, banished the matter of the oars from his
mind, and turned his thoughts into a fresh direction. It ran:

  Luce Manor, Thursday.—Please come out here at once. An unfortunate
  development has arisen.—Walter Ames.

Without loss of time the sergeant took his bicycle and rode out the
two miles to Luce Manor. Dr Ames was waiting impatiently, and drew the
officer aside.

‘Look here, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’m not very happy about this
business. I want a post-mortem.’

‘A post-mortem sir?’ the other repeated in astonishment. ‘Why, sir, is
there anything fresh turned up, or what has happened?’

‘Nothing has happened, but’—the doctor hesitated—‘the fact is I’m not
certain of the cause of death.’

The sergeant stared.

‘But is there any doubt, sir—you’ll excuse me, I hope—is there any
doubt that he was drowned?’

‘That’s just what there is—a doubt and no more. A post-mortem will set
it at rest.’

The sergeant hesitated.

‘Of course, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘if you say that it ends the matter.
But it’ll be a nasty shock for Mr Austin, sir.’

‘I can’t help that. See here,’ the doctor went on confidentially,
‘some of the obvious signs of drowning are missing, and he has had a
blow on the back of the head that looks as if it might have killed
him. I want to make sure which it was.’

‘But might he not have got that blow against a rock, sir?’

‘He might, but I’m not sure. But we’re only wasting time. To put the
matter in a nutshell, I won’t give a certificate unless there is a
post-mortem, and if one is not arranged now, it will be after my
evidence at the inquest.’

‘Please don’t think, sir, I was in any way questioning your decision,’
the sergeant hastened to reply. ‘But I think I should first
communicate with the chief constable. You see, sir, in the case of so
prominent a family—’

‘You do what you think best about that, but if you take my advice
you’ll ask the Scotland Yard people to send down one of their doctors
to act with me.’

‘Bless me, sir! Is it as serious as that?’

‘Of course it’s serious,’ rapped out the doctor. ‘Sir William may have
been drowned, in which case it’s all right; or he may not, in which
case it’s all wrong—for somebody.’

The sergeant’s manner changed.

‘I’ll go immediately, sir, and phone the chief constable, and then, if
he approves, Scotland Yard. Where will you be, sir?

‘I have my work to attend to; I’m going home. You’ll find me there any
time during the evening. And look here, sergeant. I’d rather you said
nothing about this. There may be nothing at all in it.’

‘Trust me, sir,’ and with a salute the officer withdrew.

He rode rapidly back to Halford, and once again calling up the chief
constable, repeated what Dr Ames had said.

The two men discussed the matter at some length, and it was at last
decided that the chief constable should ring up the Yard and ask the
opinion of the Authorities about sending down a doctor. In a short
time there was a reply. Dr Wilgar and Inspector Tanner were motoring
down, and would be at Luce Manor about eight o’clock. The sergeant
went round to tell Dr Ames, and it was arranged that the latter should
meet the London men there. In the meantime the sergeant was to see
Austin Ponson, and break the disagreeable news to him.

This programme was carried out, and shortly after ten o’clock five men
met at the police station at Halford. There were the medical men,
Inspector Tanner, the sergeant, and Chief Constable Soames, who had
motored over.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the latter, when the preliminary greetings
were past, ‘we are met here under unusual and tragic circumstances,
which may easily become more serious still.’ He turned to the doctors.
‘You have completed the post-mortem, I understand?’

‘We have,’ replied Dr Wilgar.

‘And are you in agreement as to your conclusions?’

‘Completely.’

‘Perhaps then you would tell us what they are?’

Wilgar bowed to Dr Ames, and the latter replied:

‘The first moment I glanced at the body the thought occurred to me
that it had not exactly the appearance of a drowned man. But at that
time I did not seriously doubt that death had so occurred. When,
however, I came to make a more careful examination, the uncertainty
again arose in my mind. There was none of the discolouration usual in
such cases, and the wounds on the side of the face did not look as if
they had been inflicted before death. But, as a result of the long
continued washing they had had, I could not be certain of this. When
in addition I discovered a bruise on the back of the head which might
easily have caused death, I felt I would not be justified in giving a
certificate without further examination.’

The chief constable bowed and Dr Wilgar took up the story.

‘When I saw the corpse I quite agreed with my colleague’s views, and
we decided the post-mortem must be carried out. As a result of it we
find the man was not drowned.’

His hearers stared at him, but without interrupting.

‘There was no water in the lungs or stomach,’ went on Dr Wilgar. ‘The
wounds on the face occurred after death, and were doubtless caused by
the boulders in the river, but the cause of death was undoubtedly the
blow on the back of the head to which my colleague has referred.’

‘You amaze me, gentlemen,’ the chief constable remarked, and a similar
emotion showed on the sergeant’s expressive face. Inspector Tanner, a
fair haired, blue eyed, clean-shaven man of about forty, merely looked
keenly interested.

‘Do I understand you to say that the late Sir William was killed
before falling into the river?’ went on Mr Soames.

‘There is no doubt of it.’

‘That means, I take it, that he was flung out of the boat in such a
way that the back of his head struck a rock, killing him before he
dropped into the stream?’

‘We do not think so, sir,’ Dr Wilgar answered. ‘In that case he would
certainly have swallowed water. Besides, the blow was struck square on
with a blunt, smooth-surfaced implement. The skin was not cut as a
boulder would have cut it. No, we regret to say so, but the only
hypothesis which seems to meet the facts is that Sir William was
deliberately murdered.’

‘Good gracious, gentlemen, you don’t say so!’ The chief constable
seemed shocked, while the sergeant actually gasped.

‘I am afraid, and Dr Ames agrees with me, that there is no
alternative. The blow on the back of the head was struck while Sir
William was alive, and it could not have been self inflicted. It would
have been sufficient to kill him. The other injuries occurred after
death, and it is certain he was not drowned. There is no escape from
the conclusion that I have stated. On the contrary, there is every
reason to believe a deliberate and carefully thought out crime has
been committed. Though it is hardly our province, it seemed to us the
whole episode of the boat and the river was merely an attempt to hide
the true facts by providing the suggestion of an accident. And I may
perhaps be permitted to say that had a less observant and
conscientious man than my colleague been called in, the ruse might
easily have succeeded.’

‘You amaze me, sir,’ exclaimed Mr Soames. ‘A terrible business! I knew
the poor fellow well. I met him in Gateshead before he moved to these
parts, and we have been good friends ever since. A sterling, good
fellow as ever breathed! I cannot imagine anyone wishing him harm.
However, it shows how little we know’ . . . He turned to Inspector
Tanner. ‘I presume, Inspector, you came here prepared to take over the
case?’

‘Certainly, sir; I was sent for that purpose.’

‘Well, the sooner you get to work the better. And now about the
inquest. With the medical evidence there can be but one verdict.’

‘I think, sir,’ observed Tanner, ‘that with your approval it might be
wiser to hold that evidence back. It might put some one on his guard,
who would otherwise give himself away. I should suggest formal
evidence of identification, and an adjournment.’

‘Very possibly you are right, Inspector. What reason would you give
for that procedure?’

‘I would say, sir, that it is desirable on technical grounds that some
motive for Sir William’s taking out the boat should be discovered, and
that the inquest is being adjourned to enable inquiries on this point
to be made.’

‘Very well. I shall see the coroner and arrange it with him. It is not
of course necessary for me to remind you of the importance of
secrecy,’ and with a bow Chief Constable Soames took his leave, and
the meeting broke up.

‘Come along round and have some supper at the George,’ Inspector
Tanner invited the sergeant. ‘I’ve got a private room, and I want a
talk over this business.’

The sergeant, flushed with the honour, and delighting in his feeling
of importance, accepted, and the two went out together.

An hour later they lit up their pipes, and Tanner listened while the
sergeant told him in detail all he knew of the affair. Then the
Inspector unrolled a large-scale map he had brought, and spread it on
the table.

‘I want,’ he said, ‘to learn my way about. Just come and point out the
places on the map. Here,’ he pointed as he spoke, ‘is Halford, a place
of, I suppose, 3000 inhabitants.’ The sergeant nodded and the other
resumed. ‘This road running through the town from north to south is
the main road from Bedford to London. Now, let’s see. Going towards
London it crosses the Cranshaw River at the London side of Halford,
and for about a mile both run nearly parallel. Then at the end of the
mile, what’s this? A lane leading from the road to the river?’

‘Yes, that’s what we call the Old Ferry. It’s a grass-grown lane
through trees, and there’s a broken-down pier at the end of it.’

‘H’m. Then the river bears away towards the south-east; while the road
continues almost due south. Luce Manor is here in this vee between
them?’

‘Yes, that’s it, sir.’

‘I see. Then at the end of Luce Manor, a cross road runs from the
Bedford-London road eastwards, crossing the river just above the falls
and leading to Hitchin?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’

‘So that the Luce Manor grounds make a triangle bounded by the main
London road, the cross road to Hitchin and the river.’

The Inspector smoked in silence for some minutes. Then, rolling up the
map, he went on:

‘Now I want to learn my dates, and also what weather you have been
having. This is Thursday night, and it was, therefore, Wednesday night
or early this morning the affair happened. Now what about the
weather?’

‘We’ve had a lot of rain lately. It was wet up to last Monday. In the
afternoon it cleared up, and it has been fine since—that is, here. But
farther up the country there has been a lot of thunder and heavy rain.
That has left the river full for this time of year.’

‘Wet up till Monday afternoon, and fine since, I see. Well, sergeant,
I think that’s about all we can do tonight. By the way, could you lend
me a bicycle for the morning?’

‘Certainly, I’ll leave it round now,’ and with an exchange of
good-nights the men separated.



CHAPTER III.

Hoaxed?

As soon as it was light next morning Inspector Tanner let himself out
of the hotel, and taking the sergeant’s bicycle, rode out along the
London Road. It was again a perfect morning, everything giving promise
of a spell of settled weather. The dew lay thick on the ground,
sparkling in the rays of the rising sun, which cast long, thin shadows
across the road. Not a cloud was in the sky, and though a few traces
of mist still lingered on the river, they were rapidly disappearing in
the growing heat. From the trees came the ceaseless twittering of
birds, while from some unseen height a lark poured down its glorious
song. The roads had dried up after the recent rains, but were not yet
dusty, and as the Inspector pedalled along he congratulated himself on
the pleasant respite he was likely to have from London in July.

He crossed the Cranshaw River, and gradually diverging from it, rose
briskly through the smiling, well-wooded country. About a mile from
the town a grass-grown lane branched off to the left, leading, he
presumed, back to the river at the Old Ferry. From it began the stone
wall which bounded the Luce Manor grounds, and he passed first the
small door at the end of the footpath from the house, and then the
main entrance. A little farther, some two miles from the town, he
reached the cross roads and, turning to the left and still skirting
the Manor lands, arrived after a few minutes at the two-arched bridge
which crossed the Cranshaw immediately above the falls. Here he hid
the bicycle among some bushes, then stepping on to the bridge, he
looked around.

The river had greatly fallen, as he could see from the high water mark
along the banks. But even now it was running fast, and swirled and
eddied as it raced through the archways beneath. Below the falls the
two distinct channels were visible, and Tanner could understand how
objects passing through the right arch would almost inevitably get
among the boulders and be smashed up, while those carried through the
other might slip downstream uninjured.

In the opposite direction the river curved away between thinly-wooded
banks, and on those banks the Inspector decided his work must begin.
From the medical evidence it had seemed clear to him that Sir William
Ponson had first been murdered, the body afterwards being placed in
the boat. With the ground in the soft condition produced by the recent
rains, this could hardly have been done without leaving traces. He
must therefore search for those traces in the hope of finding with
them some clue to the murderer’s identity.

Not far from the bridge there was a gate in the Luce Manor wall,
leading from the road into the plantation of small trees which fringed
the river. He passed through, and getting down near the water’s edge,
began to walk upstream, scrutinising the ground for footprints. As he
expected, most of the bank was still soft from the rain, but where he
came to hard or grassy portions or where the rock out-cropped, he made
little detours till he reached more plastic ground beyond. It was
during one of these deviations, some quarter of a mile from the
bridge, that he made his first discovery.

At this point a small stream entered the river, and the ground for
some distance on each side had been trampled over by cattle coming to
drink. The brook, which was not more than a couple of yards wide by a
few inches deep, was crossed by a line of rough stepping-stones. The
Inspector, looking about, saw that several persons had recently passed
over. Their tracks converged like a fan at each end of the stones.
Here, he thought, is where Austin Ponson and the butler, valet and
boatman walked when searching for the body.

But Tanner was a painstaking and conscientious man. He never took
probabilities for granted and, therefore, at the approaches to the
stepping-stones, he set himself to check his theory by separating out
the four prints for future identification. It gave him some trouble,
but he presently found himself rewarded. Instead of there being four
different prints, there were five. Four men had walked together down
the river; the fifth had crossed slightly diagonally to the others,
and had gone upstream. In all cases where the steps of this fifth man
coincided with others the former were the lower, showing that their
owner had passed up before the others came down. He had worn boots
with nailed soles, and his steps were smaller and closer together than
any of the others. Tanner deduced a small-sized man of the working
classes.

He was about to move on, when, looking up the little tributary, he saw
another line of steps crossing it some thirty yards above the stones.
These were heading downstream, and the owner had evidently not
troubled to diverge to the stones, but had walked right through the
water. The soil at the place was spongy, and the tracks were not
clear, but Tanner, by following them back, was able to identify them
as those of this same fifth man.

The Inspector at first was somewhat puzzled by the neglect of the
stepping-stones. Then it occurred to him that one of two things would
account for it. Either the downward journey had been made at night
when the unknown could not see the stones, or he had been too
perturbed or excited to consider where he was going. And Tanner could
not help recognising that anyone hastening from the scene of the
murder would in all probability show traces of just such agitation.

He continued his search of the bank, seeing no traces of an approach
to the river, but finding here and there prints of the four men going
downstream, and of the fifth leading in both directions.

About a hundred yards before he reached the boathouse a paling went up
at right angles to the river, separating the rough, uncared for bank
along which he had passed from the well-kept lawn he was approaching.
The grass on this latter was cut short, and looking up under the fine
oaks and beeches studded about, he could see the façade of the house.
A gravel path connected the two buildings, leading from the Dutch
garden in front of the terrace straight down to the door of the
boathouse. From the latter point another path branched off at right
angles to the first, running upstream along the river bank. This,
Tanner remembered from his examination of the map, afterwards curved
round to the left, and joined the narrow walk from the house at the
road gate. A third short path ran round the boathouse, and terminated
in a flight of broad landing steps, leading down into the river.

A careful search of the ground near the boathouse revealed occasional
impressions on the closely cut sward. The Inspector spent over an hour
moving from point to point, and was at last satisfied as to what had
taken place. The four men whom he had assumed were Austin and the
servants, had evidently come down the path from the direction of the
house. They had turned to the right before reaching the boathouse,
thus approaching the river diagonally, and had crossed the paling
bounding the lawn close to the water’s edge. These men had walked
together and the tracks were exactly in accordance with the statement
of their movements they had made to the sergeant.

The fifth man had crossed the paling almost at the same place as the
others—it was the obviously suitable place—but instead of turning up
towards the house, his steps led direct to the boathouse! Another line
of the same steps led back from the boathouse to the fence—in neither
case continuously, but here and there, where the grass was thin. And
at two points along these tracks the Inspector gave a chuckle of
satisfaction. At one there was a perfect impression of part of the
right sole, and at another of the remainder and the heel. Tanner
decided he must take plaster casts of these prints before they became
blurred.

[Illustration: A ground plan of a boathouse situated on the bank of
River Cranshaw, with two different sets of footprint tracks passing
nearby.]

Passing the boathouse—he felt that marks in it, if any, would keep—he
continued his careful search of the bank above flood level. Very
painstaking and thorough he was as he gradually worked his way up, but
no further traces could he find. At last after a good hour’s work he
reached the Old Ferry. Here the track approaching the ruined pier was
hard; and he recognised that, shut in as it was by trees, it would
have made an ideal place for disposing of the body. He thought he need
hardly expect traces above this, but, as he wished to cross the river,
and he could do so no nearer than the London road bridge at Halford,
he continued along the bank, still searching. Then, reaching the
bridge, he crossed and worked in the same way down the left bank till
he reached the other bridge at the Cranshaw Falls. When the work was
completed, he felt positive the body could only have been set adrift
at either the boathouse or the Old Ferry.

It was now eleven o’clock, and he had been at it for over five hours.
Taking the bicycle, he rode back into Halford, where he had a hurried
meal. Then he left again to attend the inquest at Luce Manor.

A long, narrow room, with oak-panelled walls, and three deep windows,
had been set aside for the occasion. Round the table, which ran down
the centre, sat the jury, looking self-conscious and important. At the
head was the Coroner, and near him, but a little back from the table,
were Austin and Cosgrove Ponson, Dr Ames, the butler, valet, boatman,
sergeant, and a few other persons. As Tanner entered and slipped
quietly to a seat, the Coroner was just rising to open the
proceedings.

He made a brief speech deploring the unhappy event which had robbed
their neighbourhood of so worthy and so useful a man as Sir William,
and expressing on his own behalf and that of those present the
sympathy which they felt for the surviving members of the family. Then
he lamented the fact that the law required an inquest, and promised
that on his part at least the proceedings should be conducted so as to
give the least possible amount of annoyance and pain. Partly on that
account, and partly because the authorities for technical reasons
required some information which there had not as yet been time to
obtain, he did not propose to complete the inquest that day, but after
formal evidence of identification had been taken he would adjourn the
proceedings to a more convenient date.

The speech was cleverly worded. While it stated nothing explicitly,
its whole suggestion was that as every one knew an accident had
happened, further inquiry must be mere waste of time. He touched but
slightly on the adjournment, proceeding at once to call the roll and
swear in the jury.

While he was speaking Tanner ran his sharp eyes over the faces of
those present, memorising their features, and noting their demeanour.
There sat Parkes, the butler, solemn and ponderous, surveying the
scene with grave and decorous interest. Innes, sharp-eyed and alert,
seemed to be watching the proceedings with an eye for flaws in the
Coroner’s law. Smith, the gardener-boatman, somewhat overawed with his
surroundings, was evidently there, a plain man, to tell a plain man’s
tale. After registering a mental picture of each, Tanner’s gaze passed
on, but when it reached Austin Ponson it halted and remained steady.

The son and nephew were seated together. There was a considerable
similarity in their appearance. Of middle height, both had blue eyes,
clear complexions, and clean-shaven chins. Their features were not
unlike, but Austin was stouter, and seemed younger, and more easy
going. Cosgrove looked as if he had lived hard. He was thin, and lines
radiated from the corners of his eyes while the hair near his temples
showed slightly grey. He had the indefinable stamp of a society man,
which Austin lacked. But both were well looking enough, and would have
passed unnoticed among any crowd of well-dressed Englishmen of the
upper classes.

But it was not on these points of superficial resemblance that
Tanner’s gaze rested. He was a reader, so far as he was able, of
hearts. And it was the expressions of the cousins which had specially
attracted his attention.

That both were shocked and upset by the tragedy there could be no
doubt. But, while this seemed the sum total of Cosgrove’s emotion, the
detective’s keen eye recognised something more in Austin’s face and
bearing. He was anxious—unquestionably anxious—and he was trying to
hide it. And when the Coroner mentioned the adjournment he started,
and a look of undoubted fear showed for a moment in his eyes.
Inspector Tanner’s interest was keenly aroused. That Austin knew
something he felt sure, and he decided his first business must be to
learn what it was.

Accordingly, when the body had been viewed and formally identified,
and the proceedings had come to an end, he sought out his victim, and
quietly introduced himself.

‘I am exceedingly sorry, Mr Ponson,’ he said politely, ‘to intrude
myself upon you at such a moment, but I have been sent here by
Scotland Yard to make certain inquiries into this unhappy occurrence,
and I have no option but to carry out my instructions. Could you spare
me a few moments?’

Austin’s face paled as the other made his occupation known, and again
the look of fear showed in his eyes. But he answered readily enough:

‘Certainly, Inspector. I am at your service. Come in here; we shall
not be disturbed.’

He led the way into a small study or office on the left of the hall,
plainly furnished in mahogany, with dark red leather upholstering.
Drawing forward two arm-chairs he motioned his visitor to a seat.

‘I should feel greatly obliged, sir,’ began Tanner, as he accepted a
cigarette from the case the other held out, ‘if you would tell me all
you can about this unhappy affair. I have practically only arrived,
and I have not heard the details.’

‘There’s not much I can tell you, I’m afraid,’ Austin answered, and
then he repeated almost word for word the statement he had made to the
sergeant. He spoke calmly, but the Inspector could see that he was ill
at ease.

‘It seemed to my people,’ went on Tanner, ‘that a good deal hinged on
the motive Sir William had for taking out the boat. You cannot form
any theory about that?’

‘None whatever. It was the last thing I should have expected him to
do.’

‘There is no one whom he might have wished to visit?’

‘The butler suggested that,’ and Austin mentioned Dr Graham. ‘But,’ he
ended up, ‘we could find nothing to bear out that theory.’

‘Can you tell me if Sir William had anything on his mind recently?’

Austin hesitated and moved uneasily.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not to my knowledge.’ But his voice changed, and the
Inspector felt he was not speaking the truth.

‘When did you see him last, Mr Ponson?’

‘On Sunday. I dined here and spent the evening.’

‘And you noticed nothing unusual in his manner then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You will be wondering what is the point of all these questions. I am
sorry to tell you, Mr Ponson, that my superiors have got an
exceedingly unpleasant suspicion into their minds. I hardly like to
mention it to you.’

The Inspector paused, watching the other keenly. He was evidently on
tenterhooks. Seemingly unable to remain quiet, he threw his cigarette
away, and then with quick, jerky movements lit another. But he
controlled himself and spoke calmly.

‘Yes? What do they think?’

‘They are not satisfied,’ went on Tanner, slowly watching all the time
the effect of his words, ‘that the affair was an accident at all.’

Austin paled still further and tiny drops of sweat appeared on his
forehead.

‘In the Lord’s name,’ he cried hoarsely, ‘what do you mean?’

‘They fear suicide, Mr Ponson.’

‘Suicide?’ There was horror in the man’s eyes, but to the Inspector
there was relief also. ‘What infernal drivel! They did not know my
father.’

‘That is so, of course, sir. I’m only telling you what the Chief said.
That’s the reason they postponed the inquest, and that’s the reason I
was sent down.’

‘I tell you, Inspector, the thing’s absurd. Ask anybody that knew him.
They will all tell you the same thing.’

‘I dare say, sir, and probably correctly. But might I ask you when you
go home to turn the matter over in your mind, and if you think of
anything bearing on it to let me know?’

‘Of course,’ assented Austin, and the relief in his manner was now
unmistakable.

‘There’s just one other point,’ Tanner continued. ‘I have to ask a
question I deeply regret, but I can only assure you it is one asked
invariably, and as a matter of routine in such cases. I trust you will
not mind. It is this. Will you please let me have a statement of your
own movements on last Wednesday night?’

Austin Ponson threw up his hands.

‘I have been afraid of that question, Inspector, ever since I first
heard the news, and now you’ve asked it, by Jove, I’m glad! I have
been trying to make up my mind to tell the police since—since it
happened, and it’ll be a huge relief to do so now. I tell you,
Inspector, I’ve been actually _afraid_ when I thought of it. Here goes
for the whole thing.’

He spoke with excitement, but soon calmed down and went on in ordinary
tones.

‘On Wednesday night I was the victim of what I then thought was a
stupid and rather unkind hoax, but what since this affair I have
looked on in a more sinister light. At the same time I confess I am
entirely puzzled as to its meaning. In order that you may understand
it I must tell you a few facts about myself.

‘I have lived, as you perhaps know, alone in Halford for several
years. I have some private means, and I pass my time in research work
in connection with certain disease-carrying insects, besides writing
on scientific and social subjects. Recently I became deeply attached
to a young lady living close by—a Miss Lois Drew—and on last Saturday
I put fate to the test, and asked her to marry me. She consented, but
wished our engagement kept a secret for a few days. I only mention her
name to you, Inspector, on her own authority, indeed at her express
direction, but at the same time I trust you will respect my confidence
in the matter.’

Tanner bowed without speaking.

‘About six o’clock on Wednesday evening, my butler handed me a note.
He had found it, as I afterwards learnt, in the letter box of the hall
door, and as it had not come through the post, it must have been
delivered by private messenger. But there had been no ring, nor had he
seen anyone approaching the house.

‘The note was in Miss Drew’s handwriting, and it said that she and her
sister were going that evening to call on a Mrs Franklyn, who lived a
mile or more from the town along the London road. They would be
returning about nine, and if I liked to take a boat down to the Old
Ferry and wait for them there, I could row them home.

‘I need hardly say I was delighted, and I went to the Club to get a
boat, intending to be down at the Old Ferry in good time. But there
was a delay in getting the boat I wanted, and in spite of rowing hard
it was a little past the hour when I reached the place. There was no
one there, but I had not waited more than five or ten minutes when a
girl came walking up. It was getting dusk, and I thought at first it
was Miss Drew’s sister, but when she got nearer I saw she was a
stranger. She was below medium height, dark, and badly dressed, with a
thin muffler up round her face, as if she had toothache. I could not
see her features distinctly, though I think I should know her again.
She asked me if I was Mr Austin Ponson.

‘“I am Mrs Franklyn’s housemaid,” she said, “and I was sent to give
you this note.”

‘It was a pencil scrawl from Miss Drew, saying that she and her sister
had gone with Tom and Evelyn Franklyn, the two younger members of the
family, to the Abbey, where the ghost was reported to be abroad. I was
to follow, and the girl, Mrs Franklyn’s housemaid, would watch the
boat till we returned.

‘The Abbey, I should explain, is an old ruin, a little farther away
than Mrs Franklyn’s house—about two miles from the town. It is reached
by a narrow and little used path from the London road, perhaps half a
mile or less long. According to the local tradition it is haunted, and
every now and then the ghost is supposed to walk. I don’t know the
exact details of the superstition, but as the place is interesting,
and the walk there pleasant enough, to look for the ghost is often
made the joking excuse for paying the old place an evening visit.

‘“You will watch the boat till I come back?” I said to the maid, and
she answered:

‘“Yes sir, Mrs Franklyn told me so.”

‘I set off to walk the mile or more to the Abbey, reaching it in about
twenty minutes. I was a little surprised by the whole business, for
though the Abbey would have been a likely enough walk for Miss Drew
and the others to take under ordinary circumstances, the path that
night was a good deal wetter and muddier than I thought any of the
ladies would have cared for. As you know, the weather only cleared up
that morning after a long spell of rain. However, I pressed on till I
reached the Abbey. Inspector, there was no one there!

‘I searched the whole place, and called aloud, but not a creature did
I find. Quite mystified, and a good deal annoyed, I turned and hurried
back.

‘“I have been hoaxed by those four,” I thought, and I decided to go
round to the Franklyns’ and enjoy the joke with them. But when I
reached the house it was in darkness, and the door was shut. I
knocked, and rang, and walked round it, but nowhere was there any
lights, and I had to conclude it was empty. I returned to the Old
Ferry and found the boat still there, but Mrs Franklyn’s servant was
gone. Sorely puzzled, I rowed back up the river. By the time I reached
the boat club it was quarter to eleven, and the place was closed. I
had to root out the caretaker to get the boat in. Then I walked on to
the Drews’, arriving about eleven, just as they were preparing for
bed; I apologised, of course, for turning up at such a time, but when
I explained the reason, Miss Drew cried out that the whole thing was a
hoax. She hadn’t been out that evening, and she hadn’t written any
notes. Furthermore, she knew the Franklyns had been called away
unexpectedly the previous day to see their son who was ill, and had
sent their servants home, and closed the house.

‘So there, Inspector, you have the whole thing. At the time, as I
said, I thought it merely a stupid practical joke, but since I heard
of this affair I cannot but wonder is there no connection. I recognise
anyway that I am in an exceedingly unpleasant position, for I am quite
unable to prove what I have told you.’

Beyond a murmured acknowledgment, Inspector Tanner did not reply for
some moments, as he thought over what he had just heard. There were
obviously two theories about it. First, if the story were true it
cleared Austin, not merely as an alibi, but it accounted for his
suspicious manner. And the Inspector could see no reason why it should
not be true. Such a plant on the part of the murderer, with the object
of throwing suspicion on Austin, and therefore off himself, would be
quite possible. It would be proved that Austin took a boat, and went
down the river, and was away long enough for him to have reached the
Luce Manor boathouse and committed the murder. And the ruined Abbey
was just the place the inventor of such a plant would choose, a
deserted spot where Austin would be unlikely to meet anyone who could
confirm his story.

On the other hand, Austin might really know the truth, even if he was
not himself the actual murderer. If so, the story was a clever
invention on his part, well designed and thought out. But whichever of
these theories were true, it was obvious to Tanner that he must test
the whole thing as thoroughly as he possibly could.

‘If you will allow me to say it, sir,’ he observed, ‘you did a wise
thing in telling me this story. Had you not done so, and had I found
out about your using the boat, I should have taken a very different
view of the affair. And now for your own sake, as well as mine, I feel
sure you won’t object to my testing your statement. You say the path
to this ruin was muddy. There has been no rain since Wednesday. Your
footprints will therefore be clear. Come into Halford with me now, and
lend me the shoes you wore that night, and I will go out to the place
and see the marks with my own eyes.’

Austin slapped his thigh.

‘Capital, Inspector!’ he cried. ‘The more you test it the better I’ll
be pleased. It will be no end of a weight off my mind. I don’t deny I
have been horribly worried.’

His manner did not belie his statement. As a few minutes later he
drove Tanner and the sergeant into Halford, he seemed to have thrown
off his depression, and chatted easily and almost gaily.

They drew up at the door of his small villa. It was opened by a butler
rather resembling Parkes, but younger and slighter.

‘Come in, Inspector, and I’ll give you what you want. Will you wait
here a moment?’

Austin led the way into a cheerful room fitted up as a study and
workroom. A large table in the corner was littered with papers and
manuscripts, there was a fine microscope in the window, while
everywhere were strewn books and periodicals. The Inspector moved
about noting and memorising what he saw, till Austin returned.

‘There you are,’ the latter exclaimed, holding out a pair of tan
shoes, ‘and here’s a bag to put them in.’

‘New?’ queried Tanner as he took the shoes, and glanced at their
soles.

‘Quite. I got them on Monday, and I have only worn them once.’

The Inspector nodded.

‘Thanks, Mr Ponson,’ he said, as he took his leave, ‘I’ll keep you
advised how I get on.’

Remaining in the town only long enough to hire a car and buy some
plaster of Paris, Inspector Tanner and the sergeant drove out once
more along the London road. The weather had come in hot, and the air
hung heavy and motionless beneath the trees. The cattle had moved into
the shade, and except for an occasional impatient switch of their
tails, remained standing rigid, the embodiment of placid
unintelligence. Aromatic scents floated across the road, and masses of
colour blazed out from the adjoining gardens. In the distance the
hills showed faint and nebulous in the haze, while objects closer at
hand quivered in the heated atmosphere. The car slid rapidly along,
its rubber treads purring in a companionable way on the smooth road.
On the left the sergeant pointed out the lane leading to the Old
Ferry, then on the right the entrance to Mrs Franklyn’s villa. On the
left again were the large gates of Luce Manor, and quarter of a mile
past them, and on the opposite side, a grass-grown path branched off.
At this the motor pulled up.

‘Abbey Lane,’ the sergeant explained, and having arranged for the car
to wait, the two men dismounted and passed down the path.

At first the surface was hard, some traces of old macadam remaining.
But as they went farther it grew softer and more grassy. They examined
the ground, and for a long way could find no marks. But later they
came on what they wanted. Not far from the ruins the path crossed a
shallow valley where, the water having run down from each side, the
bottom was soft and muddy. Here clear and distinct were two lines of
footprints, one going and one returning. Tanner compared Austin’s
shoes with the impressions. They fitted exactly.

Notwithstanding this discovery, the officers continued till they
reached the ruins. Here a careful search revealed three prints of
Austin’s shoes, but there were no traces of other visitors.

To check another point in Austin’s statement, Tanner noted the time it
took them to walk quickly from the Abbey to Mrs Franklyn’s house. Here
they made another search, with the result that at several points close
to the building they found prints of Austin’s shoes. That he had been
there also was beyond question, and his story was therefore true so
far.

Having ascertained the time, occupied in walking from Mrs Franklyn’s
to the Old Ferry, the two men were driven back to Luce Manor. Here
they took plaster casts of the various footprints on the river bank.
Then, re-entering the car, they returned to Halford, tired out from
their day’s work.



CHAPTER IV.

Inspector Tanner Grows Suspicious

Inspector Tanner was an early bird. Though on the next morning he did
not attempt to emulate his performance of the day before, half-past
eight o’clock saw him cycling out to the Luce Manor boathouse to
undertake the examination which had been postponed from the previous
evening. Leaving his bicycle among the shrubs at the entrance gate, he
walked down the path which ran along the river bank, and which he had
not yet examined. But here he found nothing of interest.

The boathouse was a modern structure in the Old English style, with
brick sides, half-timbered gables, and a red tiled roof. The door was
in the wall opposite the river, and the Inspector unlocked it, and
entered a chamber of about thirty feet square, lighted from a louvre
in the roof. The water basin occupied about half the floor area, and
was in one corner, leaving an L-shaped wharf, laid down in
granolithic. Along the walls were racks for oars and presses for
rowlocks and fishing tackle. An archway at the end of the basin led
out to the river, and was closed by a grill or portcullis raised by
chains from a small windlass. Two boats were floating in the basin.

For some minutes Tanner stood motionless, noting these details, and
looking round in the hope of seeing something that might help him.
This cursory inspection proving fruitless, he settled down to make a
methodical examination of the entire building.

If, as seemed likely, the man who had made the fifth set of tracks on
the river bank had really entered the house, his muddy boots must
surely have left traces. Tanner therefore began with the floor, and
crawling on his hands and knees backwards and forwards, scrutinised
the cement-coloured surface. It was tiresome work, but at last he
found what he thought looked like footprints. On the quay not far from
the corner of the basin were a number of tiny mud-coloured spots. At
first he could not connect these to make a complete whole, but by
lying down on his face and using a lens he was able to find several
other patches of coagulated sand, which he marked with a pencil; and
when he had finished there showed out on the granolithic the nail
patterns of two clearly marked heels with the corresponding middle
portion of the soles in front. It was evident a man had stood with his
back to the door, and facing the basin, and had remained there long
enough to allow the moisture from the soles of his shoes to run down
the nail heads, and settle on the floor.

It was the work of a few seconds for Tanner to compare these marks
with those of the fifth man on the river bank. They were identical.

He resumed his search. There were no more footmarks, and he made but
one other discovery. In the left-hand corner of the quay, at the very
edge of the basin, and hidden behind the mooring rope of one of the
boats, lay the stump of a cigarette. Clearly the intention had been to
throw it into the basin, but it had just missed going down, and had
fallen unnoticed. Tanner had a good working knowledge of cigarettes,
but this one he could not place. The paper was yellow, and the tobacco
very dark in colour. He thought it looked South American. But he was
pleased with his find, for it seemed to have been but recently smoked,
and as he put it away in his pocket, he thought he had perhaps gained
a clue.

An examination of the door handles and styles, winch handle, backs of
chairs and similar objects with a powdering apparatus revealed several
finger prints, but, alas! all too smudged and blurred to be of use.
Nor could he find anything else of interest.

He was disappointed that the boathouse had yielded so little. It was
true that either the footprint or the cigarette end might prove
valuable, but on the other hand neither were necessarily connected
with the murder. Both might have got there in a perfectly ordinary and
legitimate manner.

He sat down on one of the chairs to consider his next step. There were
three lines of inquiry open to him, and he hesitated as to that on
which to begin. First, there was the general investigation, the
interviewing of the servants, Lady Ponson, Miss Enid, and any others
from whom he might gain information, the examination of Sir William’s
papers, the tracing of his movements for some time previous to his
death, the consideration of his finances, the ascertaining whether
anyone might benefit by his death—all routine details, each step of
which was suggested by his training, and his experience in similar
cases. This work he knew he would have to carry out some time, and
obviously the sooner it was done the better.

Next came the testing of Austin’s alibi. Though he had made a
beginning with this, a great deal remained to be done before he could
feel satisfied as to its truth. And satisfied he must be. The
circumstances were too suspicious for anything less than utter
certainty to suffice.

As he turned the matter over in his mind he slowly came to the
conclusion that he could work on these two points simultaneously. The
same information would, to some extent at least, be required for both,
and the same people would have to be interviewed.

But there was a third point which, equally urgently, required
attention. The man who had made the fifth line of footsteps must be
traced. And here, again, no time should be lost in getting to work.

Tanner felt he could not take on this inquiry with the others. There
was work in it alone for another man. He therefore decided he would
wire for an assistant to whom he could hand over this portion of the
case.

But as he was here he might as well begin the interviewing of the
Manor servants. He therefore left the boathouse, and walked slowly up
to the terrace under the great trees of the lawn, past long herbaceous
borders, and through the Dutch garden with its geometrically shaped
beds, its boxwood edgings, and its masses of rich colour. Approached
from the front, the old house looked its best. Though somewhat heavy
and formal in detail, its proportion was admirable, and it had an air
of security and comfort strangely at variance with the tragic
happening which had overtaken its owner. Tanner labelled it one of the
‘stately homes of England’ as he crossed the terrace to the ornate
porch and pulled the bell.

Parkes opened the door. The Inspector introduced himself, and
courteously asked for an interview. With equal politeness, and an
evident desire to help, Parkes brought his visitor to his own sanctum
and told his story. But to Tanner most of it was already known.
Indeed, on a very few points only did he add to his knowledge of the
case.

The first was that on the previous Friday, five days before his death,
Sir William had become depressed and irritable, as if some trouble was
weighing on his mind. The change had occurred quite suddenly between
breakfast and lunch and had continued until the end. To Parkes the
cause was unknown.

The second matter was more interesting and suggestive, but less
tangible. When Tanner was interrogating the butler about Austin Ponson
he noticed that certain of the latter’s replies were not so
spontaneous as those to earlier questions. In particular, when he
asked whether during his call at Luce Manor on Sunday evening Austin
had seemed worried or depressed, Parkes, though he replied in the
negative, seemed so uncomfortable that the Inspector began to doubt if
he was speaking the truth. He was not certain, but the thought crossed
his mind that the butler knew something which he was holding back. At
this stage Tanner was anxious not to arouse suspicion that he was
interested in Austin. He therefore changed the subject and made
inquiries about Cosgrove. But of him he learnt nothing except that he
had not been at Luce Manor for over a month.

From the butler Tanner found out also that neither Austin Ponson nor
anyone at Luce Manor smoked dark-coloured cigarettes.

The Inspector next interviewed Innes. Having heard the valet’s
statement, which was almost identical with Parkes’s, he began to
question him in the hope of learning something further.

‘I wonder, Mr Innes,’ he asked, ‘if you can tell me what upset Sir
William between breakfast and lunch this day week?’

The valet stared.

‘You weren’t long getting hold of that,’ he commented. ‘Yes, I can
tell you; or partly at least. He got a letter with the morning
delivery. I bring them up to him when they come about half-nine. There
were about half a dozen, and he took them and looked over the
envelopes as usual. When he saw one he sort of scowled, and he tore it
open and read it. I don’t know what was in it, but it fairly gave him
the pip and he didn’t get over it. He was kind of worried right up to
the end.’

‘You didn’t notice the handwriting or the postmark?

‘No.’

‘What letters come by that delivery?’

‘London, but that means all parts.’

‘That was Friday of last week. Now can you tell me Sir William’s
movements since?’

‘Friday there was a dinner party on—about half a dozen people—and
bridge afterwards. Then Saturday Sir William went up to town. Sunday
was a quiet day. Mr Austin dined and stayed the evening. Monday Sir
William went up to town again. Tuesday and Wednesday he stayed here
alone. He was quite alone, for her ladyship and Miss Enid went up to
town on Tuesday.’

‘Were all these things in accordance with Sir William’s custom? To go
to London two days running, for example?’

‘He went now and again; I can’t remember him going two days running.’
The valet hesitated, then went on: ‘There was another thing struck me
about that, but I don’t know if there’s anything in it. When he did
go, it was nearly always in the car. I only remember him going by
train when the car was out of order, and then he groused about it. But
these two days he went by train though the car was there and the
chauffeur doing nothing.’

‘It is curious, that,’ Tanner agreed. ‘Now, Mr Austin’s coming on
Sunday. You saw him, I suppose?’

‘Yes, both when he was coming and leaving.’

‘Ah, that is fortunate. You could tell, then, if he seemed just in his
ordinary humour, or if anything had upset him?’

‘I only saw him for just a moment. It would be hard to form an opinion
in the time.’

Inspector Tanner was keenly interested. He thought he recognised a
sudden reserve in the man’s tone and manner, and he remembered that he
had had the same impression about Parkes, when the butler was asked a
similar question. He suspected both men were withholding information.
Something apparently had occurred on that Sunday night. He decided to
bluff.

‘It would be a kindness, Mr Innes, if you would tell me just what
happened on that night.’

The valet started, and an uneasy expression passed over his face.
Neither were lost on the Inspector.

‘I don’t know of anything special,’ Innes answered. ‘Just what are you
getting at?’

The Inspector bluffed again.

‘Mr Austin was upset too? Come now, Mr Innes, you’ll agree to that,
surely?’

‘Well, he may have been a bit.’

‘Was that when he was going or on arrival and departure both?’

‘He seemed a bit absent-minded when he was going, but, Lord! Mr
Tanner, what’s that? He may have been feeling a bit seedy, or had a
headache, or half a dozen things.’

The man seemed nervous and ill at ease. More strongly than ever
Inspector Tanner felt there was more to come. He racked his brains to
guess what might have happened, and to frame leading questions.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He bent forward and tapped the valet
on the knee.

‘Now, Mr Innes, about the trouble they had that night. You might tell
me what you know.’

The valet gave his questioner a sour look.

‘I suppose Parkes told you about that,’ he grumbled, ‘but I think he
might have kept his mouth shut. It’s no business of yours, or mine
either.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘I heard them in the study. Their voices were raised, and that’s all
there’s of it.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘I only heard a word or two. I didn’t wait to listen.’

‘Of course not, Mr Innes. But people can’t help overhearing things.
What was it you heard?’

The valet seemed to be considering his answer. At last he replied:

‘I heard Mr Austin say, “My God, sir, she’s not.” That’s every blessed
word, so now you know it all.’

His manner had altered, and Tanner felt this was the truth.

So the father and son had been quarrelling that Sunday evening about a
woman! That was a suggestive fact, and it was evident from his
hesitation that Innes thought so too. Then Tanner remembered that
Austin had told him it was on the previous day that he had proposed to
Miss Lois Drew, and been accepted. Could he have been telling Sir
William, and could the latter have objected to the match? He continued
his questions.

‘Thank you, Mr Innes. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. But I don’t see
that it helps us very much after all. Now about Sir William’s visits
to town. Can you give me any hint of his business there?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve been up with him, I suppose?’

‘Lord, yes. Scores of times.’

‘Where does he usually lunch?’

‘Sometimes the Savoy, but usually at one of his clubs, the St George
or the Empire.’

‘I have done at last, Mr Innes. Could you just tell me in conclusion
the trains Sir William travelled up and down by on Saturday and
Monday, and also how he was dressed on each occasion?’

The deceased gentleman, it appeared, had gone by the same train on
each occasion, the 10.55 from Halford. He had motored to the station
direct on the Saturday, but on the Monday had on his way made a call
at the local branch of the Midland Counties Bank. On Saturday, he had
returned comparatively early, but on Monday he had not reached home
till close on dinner time.

Having received this information, the Inspector expressed his
indebtedness to the other’s forbearance and good nature. Innes, who
had seemed rather ruffled by the catechism, was mollified.

‘I’m afraid,’ Tanner went on, ‘I shall have to have a look over Sir
William’s papers, but not now. I’ll come on Sunday, and take a long
quiet day at it. Now I wonder could I see Mr Smith, your boatman?’

‘Why, certainly. Let’s see; it’s quarter-past one. He’ll be at his
dinner. I’ll show you his house if you come along.’

They went to a trim, clematis-covered cottage at the back of the yard,
and there found the boatman-gardener. Tanner questioned him in detail,
but without learning anything fresh.

On his return to Halford for lunch Tanner telephoned to Scotland Yard
for assistance, and it was arranged that Detective-Sergeant Longwell
should be sent down by the first train. The Inspector met him on his
arrival, and explained what he wanted done, showing him the casts of
the fifth man’s footsteps.

‘I want you,’ he said ‘to find the man who made those tracks. You need
not mind about the Manor people, I shall attend to them. Get round the
country, and make inquiries in the neighbouring towns and villages.
Particularly work the railway stations and garages. The man will be
small, and of the working classes in all probability, and he will
certainly have had very wet and muddy boots and trousers on account of
walking through the stream. It’s not conclusive, but the fact that he
missed the stepping-stones by so great a distance, points to his being
a stranger to the locality. But in any case he shouldn’t be hard to
trace. Keep in touch with me through the Halford police station.’

That afternoon and the next morning the Inspector saw all the other
servants at Luce Manor, both indoor and out, but here again without
result. In the case of the men he took prints from their boots to
compare with those he had found on the river bank. This was a tedious
operation, involving troublesome explanations and reassurances, but at
last it was done, and Tanner was able to say with certainty that three
of the four men who had walked together were the butler, the valet,
and the gardener, while the tracks of the fifth man, who had stood in
the boathouse, were not made by anyone belonging to the estate. It was
probable, therefore, that this fifth man was concerned in the tragedy,
and Tanner was glad he had lost no time in setting Sergeant Longwell
to work to trace him.

In the afternoon the Inspector called at Austin’s villa, and
interviewed first Lady Ponson, and secondly Enid. Apologising
courteously for his intrusion, he questioned both ladies on all the
points about which he was in doubt, but once more without gaining any
fresh information. Both had noticed Sir William had not been quite up
to his usual form for a few days before their departure for London,
but both had put it down to some trifling physical indisposition, and
neither could throw light on any possible cause of worry to him. Asked
if he had an enemy who might have been giving him annoyance, they
emphatically negatived the suggestion, saying that as far as they knew
Sir William had been universally beloved. As they had been in London
on the night in question, they of course knew nothing of the actual
details of the tragedy.

Inspector Tanner was sure from the bearing and manner of both ladies
that they were telling him the absolute truth, and really were
ignorant of anything which might have been at the bottom of the
affair. They clearly were terribly shocked and distressed, and he made
his interview as short as possible.

The next day was Sunday, and, as he had mentioned to the valet, Tanner
determined to spend it in going over the late Sir William’s papers. He
brought the sergeant out to help him, and they were soon settled in
the library, immersed in their work. Tanner, seated at the big roll
top desk, went through paper after paper, while the sergeant, with the
keys found on the body, unlocked drawers and carried their contents to
the desk for his superior’s inspection. The work was tedious, but they
kept hard at it, and when after some time Parkes came into the room,
they found with surprise that it was nearly two o’clock.

‘What about a bite of lunch, gentlemen?’ the butler invited them. ‘I
should be pleased if you would join me.’

‘Very good of you, I’m sure, Mr Parkes,’ Tanner answered. ‘We’ll be
through in ten minutes.’

‘And have you found anything to help you?’ went on Parkes, running his
eye over the open safe and drawers.

‘Not a blessed thing. There’s not the slightest hint of anything out
of the common that I can see.’

‘Well, come to my room when you’re ready.’

On the previous day Parkes had shown the Inspector over the house, and
among other things Tanner had noticed large framed photographs of Sir
William, Austin, and Cosgrove. Before following the butler he slipped
up to the room in which these were hanging and, deftly removing the
frames, noted the photographer’s name. Then locking up the library
they went to lunch, soon afterwards taking their leave.

Though Tanner’s statement to Parkes that he had made no helpful
discovery among Sir William’s papers was true, he had noticed one
thing which had puzzled him. He had been turning over the blocks of
the dead man’s cheque book, and he had found that on the previous
Monday and Tuesday—the two days before the tragedy—Sir William had
written two cheques, both payable to self. That dated for the Monday
was for £100, and that for the Tuesday for no less a sum than £3000.
That the deceased should have required such sums immediately prior to
his murder was interesting and suggestive enough, but that was not
all. What had specially intrigued the Inspector’s imagination was the
fact that below the word ‘self’ was in each case one letter only—a
capital X. He looked back through the book, and in every other
instance found below the name the purpose for which the money was
required. These two sums must therefore have been for something so
private that it could be designated only by a sign. It was evidently
something quite definite, as the blocks of other cheques payable to
self bore such legends as ‘personal expenses,’ ‘visit to Edinburgh,’
and so on. What, the Inspector wondered, could it be?

Considerably interested, he went back through some of the completed
books, and at intervals he found other cheques bearing the same
mysterious sign. Without a real hope that it would lead him anywhere
he had set the sergeant to go back over all the blocks he could find,
and make a list of these X cheques, noting the date, number, and
amount. He found they had been drawn during a period of four years,
were all made out to self, and were all for even hundreds, all
excepting the last, varying from £400 down to £100. In all £4600 had
been paid.

It seemed to Inspector Tanner that there was here some secret in Sir
William’s life which might or might not be important. Was it gambling,
he wondered, or perhaps women? From what he had heard of the
deceased’s life and character both these suppositions seemed unlikely,
but, as he said to himself, you never know. He remembered that Innes
had stated Sir William had called at the bank on his way to the train
on the Monday morning, and he wondered if this was to cash the
cheques. He thought that some inquiries there would do no harm.

He went to the bank as soon as it opened next morning and saw the
manager. The cashier recollected Sir William’s visit on the previous
Monday. The deceased gentleman had, it appeared, cashed a cheque for
£100, and on comparing the number, Tanner found it was that belonging
to the X-marked block. He had been paid in Bank of England
fives—twenty of them. None of the officials could tell anything about
the £3000 cheque which apparently had not been cashed, nor indeed
about any of the other X cheques.

Tanner was anxious to learn something of the dead man’s history, see
his will, find out who would benefit by his death, and who, if anyone,
might have a grudge against him. He had discovered when going through
the papers on the previous day that Sir William’s lawyers were Messrs
Greer, Arbuthnot & Greer, of Lincoln’s Inn. To call on them,
therefore, seemed his next step. From the station he telephoned making
an appointment for two o’clock, then, taking the 10.55 a.m. train, he
went up to town.

He saw Mr Arbuthnot, a tall, rather stooped man with strongly marked,
clean-shaven features, a thick crop of lightish hair slightly shot
with grey, and a pair of very keen blue eyes. He bowed his visitor to
a chair.

‘We had your message, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I hope there is nothing
wrong. We look on you Scotland Yard gentlemen rather as stormy
petrels, you know.’ His face as he smiled lit up and became friendly
and human. Tanner took an instinctive liking to him.

‘I dare say you can guess my business, Mr Arbuthnot,’ he began. ‘It is
in connection with the sad death of Sir William Ponson.’

‘Yes?’

Tanner hesitated for a moment.

‘I think, sir,’ he said at last, ‘if you will treat what I am about to
say as confidential, I had better tell you the complication which has
arisen.’

Mr Arbuthnot nodded, and the Inspector went on.

‘You know the circumstances, of course, of Sir William’s death?
Everything seemed to point to an accident. Well, we are not so sure
about it. I am sorry to say there is a suspicion of foul play.’

The lawyer looked up sharply.

‘Foul play?’ he repeated. ‘Good Lord, I hope not!’

‘I’m afraid, sir, there is little doubt of it. The medical evidence
points in that direction at any rate.’

Mr Arbuthnot, it seemed, had been more than merely legal adviser to
the deceased gentleman. They had been close personal friends, and the
solicitor was profoundly shocked by Tanner’s news. It had the effect
of eliciting his warm sympathy with the Inspector’s efforts, and he
hastened to assure the latter of his cordial help and co-operation.
‘Tell me now,’ he concluded, ‘what I can do for you.’

Tanner thanked him, and went on:

‘I want you, sir, if you will be so kind, to tell me what you can
about Sir William—his history, his family, his money affairs, and so
on. May I ask first if you act for the remainder of the family?’

‘For Lady Ponson only.’

Tanner bowed, and Mr Arbuthnot, going to a press, took out a despatch
box labelled ‘Sir William Ponson,’ from which he removed some papers.
Consulting these from time to time for dates and names, he told the
Inspector the following history:

Sir William’s wealth and position, it appeared, had come from very
small beginnings. His father and mother, Mr Arbuthnot believed, had
died while he was quite young, leaving him and his brother John alone
in the world. He had got work as an office boy in a small iron-foundry
at Gateshead, where, owing to his extraordinary industry and energy,
he had worked himself up to the position of manager at the
comparatively early age of twenty-nine. Under his guidance the
concern, which for years had been moribund, had prospered amazingly,
and thirteen years later he was taken into partnership. This
consummation had been reached only six years when the former owner
died, leaving him in sole control. William then sought out his brother
John, who also had prospered, having worked himself up to the
chief-engineership of one of the large Cunarders. William took John
into partnership with the result that, the mechanical side of the work
being reorganised, the firm advanced still more rapidly, the two
brothers becoming wealthy men. William next turned his attention to
civic affairs. He was elected a member of Newcastle Corporation, and
during his time of office as mayor, he received his knighthood on the
occasion of a royal visit to the town. When Sir William was some sixty
years old his brother John died suddenly, and he, not caring to work
on alone, sold his interest in the firm, and moving south, purchased
Luce Manor, where he devoted his still abundant energies to
experiments in the application of machinery to farming.

With regard to his home life, Sir William, thought Mr Arbuthnot, had
been, in his later years at all events, a happy man. He had at the age
of thirty married a widow, a Mrs Ethel Dale. It was believed, though
Mr Arbuthnot could not vouch for it, that there had been quite a
romance about it. According to the generally accepted story, William
Ponson, then a clerk in the iron works, and Tom Dale, a traveller for
the same concern, had both loved the pretty Ethel Osborne, the
daughter of a doctor in the neighbourhood. Dale was outwardly a rather
fascinating personality, good looking, always well dressed, and with
attractive manners, though at heart he was a rotter. But the serious
and somewhat pompous young Ponson had failed to bring his more
sterling merits into prominence, with the result that the lady had
preferred his rival. She married Dale, and regretted it from the first
evening, when he returned drunk to the small seaside hotel at which
they were spending their honeymoon. Things went rapidly from bad to
worse. Dale continued drinking, they got into debt, and Ethel began to
fear her husband’s dismissal, and consequent poverty. Then, after some
three years of unhappiness, Dale was sent to Canada on the business of
the firm. He sailed on the _Numidian_, but off Newfoundland the ship
struck an iceberg, and turning turtle, went to the bottom in thirteen
minutes. There was an appalling casualty list, but to Mrs Dale it
meant release, for her husband’s name was among the drowned.

The lady was left in absolute destitution. Ponson managed to help her
anonymously, then after a couple of years he renewed his suit, and
some time later she capitulated and they were married. There had been
no children to her previous marriage, but now Austin and Enid Ponson
were born.

The two children were very different in disposition. While Enid,
sweet-tempered and charming, was beloved by all, and was her father’s
life and soul, Austin was somewhat difficult. When first he went to a
boarding school, it was a relief to all at home. From Rugby he
progressed to Cambridge, then, as the Inspector had already learnt, he
threw up his studies there and devoted himself to social and
entomological subjects. He had gone back at this time to his father’s
house at Gateshead, but the two rubbed each other up the wrong way,
and Sir William, making his son a handsome allowance, advised him to
live elsewhere. Austin had then taken the villa at Halford, amid
surroundings suitable to the pursuit of his hobbies.

‘But,’ explained Mr Arbuthnot, ‘you must not think from this Austin is
a man of bad or weak character. The separation was due purely to
incompatibility of temperament. Austin, so far as I know, is an
honourable, kindly man, and I have never heard of him doing a shady
thing. He is a hard worker too, and I believe has carried out some
quite valuable original research into the distribution of disease by
insects. Sir William recognised this, hence the allowance, and the
fact that, though they couldn’t pull together, they never really
quarreled.’

‘I rather gathered that from the way the servants spoke,’ Tanner
answered. ‘But there is another Ponson you haven’t
mentioned—Cosgrove.’

‘Cosgrove is the only child of Sir William’s brother John,
consequently he and Austin are first cousins. Cosgrove is the least
estimable member of the family. He was, I am afraid, a bit of a waster
from the first. He did badly at school, and was all but sent down from
college. His father kept some kind of control over him during his
life, but on his death he inherited a large sum of money, and I fear
it had the usual result. He now lives in bachelor quarters in
Knightsbridge, and is reported to be in a rather fast set. I happen to
know he has run through most of his money, and is now considerably
pinched. But he always got on well with Sir William. The old man liked
him, and passed over his follies as mere youthful indiscretions. I
think his disappointment in Austin rather drove him to make a friend
of Cosgrove, but of that of course I can’t be sure. He left Cosgrove a
good slice of his fortune at all events.’

‘That was the next thing, Mr Arbuthnot, I wished to ask you—about the
financial position of the various members of the family.’

‘Obviously, I can give you only very approximate figures. When the
death duties are paid I fancy Sir William’s capital will be worth
about £500,000 to his legatees. He has been up to the present allowing
Austin £1000 a year, and Miss Ponson and Cosgrove £500 each. His will
preserves the same proportion between them—Austin gets £150,000, and
Miss Ponson and Cosgrove £75,000 each, the remainder, about £200,000,
going to Lady Ponson.’

‘Suppose any of these four should die intestate?’

‘If that question should arise the deceased’s share is to be divided
between the survivors in the same proportions as was Sir William’s
money. It is a little complicated, but it would mean for example that
if Austin were to die without leaving a will, Lady Ponson would get
about £90,000 and Cosgrove and Enid £30,000 each of Austin’s
£150,000.’

‘Has Austin any means other than this £1000 a year?’

‘Not very much, I fancy. He has written a good deal on social and
scientific subjects, which must bring him in something, and he had a
legacy of £5000 from his Uncle John. But I don’t suppose he has more
than twelve or thirteen hundred a year.’

‘And Cosgrove? You do not know exactly how he is fixed financially?’

‘No, except that from his point of view he is in low water.’

‘Do you happen to know anything about a Miss Lois Drew of Halford?’

‘Yes,’ the lawyer returned with a grimace, ‘I do. The last day Sir
William was in here he was telling me about her. It appeared Austin
had been smitten by the young lady, and some rumours of it had reached
Sir William. He was extremely annoyed at the idea, because, though he
admitted that so far as he knew Miss Drew was personally all that
could be desired, her social standing was not good. Of course, you and
I may think that rather Victorian, but the old man had achieved so
many of his ambitions, he could not bear to see his last—that of
social position—thwarted. Indeed, he spoke of altering his will if the
matter came to a head.’

‘You didn’t know then that they are engaged?’

The lawyer seemed considerably surprised.

‘You don’t say so? No, I did not know. It was a rumour only Sir
William spoke of.’

‘Austin told me they fixed it up on Saturday week, but it is to be
kept private still.’

There seemed no question, then, about the cause of the quarrel.
Indeed, the more Tanner heard, the more essential the most searching
test of Austin’s alibi became.

‘There is just one other point, Mr Arbuthnot,’ the Inspector went on,
and he told the lawyer about the cheques, marked X. Upon these,
however, the latter could throw no light.

‘And you know of no one who had a quarrel with Sir William, or who for
any reason might desire his death?’

‘No one. Quite the opposite. Sir William was universally liked and
respected.’

Tanner was silent for a moment, considering if he had obtained all the
information he was likely to get from the solicitor. Deciding he had,
he rose.

‘Well, Mr Arbuthnot, let me express my gratitude for the way you have
met me. I am sorry for having been such a nuisance.’

‘All in the day’s work, Mr Tanner,’ the solicitor returned as he shook
hands and bowed his visitor out.

Tanner left Lincoln’s Inn, and after making a call at the Yard, took
the next train back to Halford.



CHAPTER V.

Inspector Tanner Becomes Convinced

After dinner that same evening Inspector Tanner, having lit his pipe,
and selected the most comfortable arm-chair he could find, set himself
to take stock of his position, and see just where he stood with his
new case.

He realised that the lawyer’s communication contained food for
thought. Certainly a lot of the information he had gained seemed to
point in a rather unmistakable way to Austin. That the latter had
murdered his father he felt it hard to believe, and yet he had known
men to be convicted on slighter evidence than that he already held.
Absent-mindedly pressing down the tobacco in his pipe, he closed his
eyes, and tried to view the facts he had learnt in a proper
perspective.

Here was a son who had never been able to get on with his father, so
much so that they could not live in the same house. To the father he
had been a continual disappointment, and no doubt that irritation
would show in the father’s manner, and could not but increase the bad
blood between them. It was true they had agreed to differ, and Sir
William had allowed Austin £1000 a year, but agreeing to differ did
not necessarily prevent very unpleasant feelings on both sides, and as
for the money, though it seemed handsome at first sight, it was very
small compared to what Sir William might have paid without missing it.

From what Tanner had seen of Austin and his villa, he thought the
latter must be living at the rate of well on to a thousand a year.
That was to say, nearly at the rate of his income. Under these
circumstances he falls in love and decides to marry. The lady would
have but a small dot, if any. The two of them must therefore live on
what had before been enough for Austin only. What does Austin do? He
sees his father the day after the engagement, probably to tell him the
news, and possibly to ask for an increased allowance. As in the
ordinary course of nature a large portion of Sir William’s money would
soon become his in any case, this would not be an unreasonable demand.
But what does Sir William answer? Tanner could only surmise, but from
what the dead man had said to Mr Arbuthnot it was probable he had not
only refused the increase, but had threatened altering his will
adversely to Austin if the marriage took place. If, as appeared
possible from the words overheard by Innes, Sir William had said
anything derogatory to the lady, Austin’s feelings, already
considerably aroused, would probably reach white heat. At all events,
whether the interview between father and son had or had not taken this
course, it was bed-rock fact that they had quarrelled about some
woman.

Tanner continued his surmises. Assuming he was correct so far, Austin
would inevitably be faced with a very terrible temptation. If his
father should die without altering his will, it would mean £150,000 to
himself. £150,000! Quite a respectable sum of money! There would then
be no question of love in a cottage with Miss Drew. He could give her
all those things which men delight to give women. And the irritation
of the constant unpleasantness with Sir William would be gone. The
more Tanner considered the matter, the more powerful he felt this
temptation would have been. Many a stronger man than Austin seemed to
be had succumbed to less.

Then coming down to details. The murderer had unquestionably known his
way about Luce Manor. He had either gone to the library by the side
door, and there committed the crime, carrying the body down to the
boathouse, or, more probably, he had devised some scheme to make Sir
William go there of his own accord. He had also taken the particular
oars belonging to the boat used. All the knowledge necessary for this
Austin of course possessed.

But more suspicious than that, Austin by his own showing had actually
taken a boat down the river on that night, and the hours of leaving
and returning were such that he would just have had time to reach the
Luce Manor boathouse, commit the murder, and return the boat to the
club. Of course, he had claimed to have an alibi for this period, but
alibis could be faked, and the very readiness and apparent
completeness of this seemed to Tanner slightly indicative of
prearrangement.

There was then the question of the oars. This also had a suspicious
look. At first Tanner had accepted without question the boatman’s
theory that the boat and oars had become separated in the upper
channel and had passed down to the falls through different arches of
the road bridge. Indeed, his own inspection of the place had led him
to the same conclusion. And this losing of the oars had seemed to
explain adequately enough how the accident happened.

But when it was shown that the affair was not an accident at all, the
matter of the oars took on a very different complexion. Evidently it
was part of the plant—deliberately arranged to create the very
impression it had produced. And Tanner now saw that the murderer had
overreached himself. Sir William might easily have lost one oar, but
he would not have let both go. And it was very unlikely, even if he
had dropped both, that they would have separated far enough from the
boat to have taken the other archway. Here again one might have done
so, but not both. No, Tanner was driven to the conclusion that the
boat must have been sent adrift close to the Luce Manor bank of the
river, while the oars were taken over to the opposite side in another
boat, and there thrown overboard. And Austin had had such a boat down
the river that night.

Lastly, and most suggestive of all was Austin’s start and look of
fear, when the Coroner had announced the adjournment of the inquest.
It was true he had accounted for his apprehension. An investigation
might bring up the question of the alibi in which, as he was unable to
prove its truth, no credence might be placed, leaving him in an
awkward position. But was this a satisfactory explanation? Were these
consequences not too remote to be seen with such immediate clearness
as to cause an actual start? Did it not involve too instantaneous a
perception of the facts? The Inspector thought so.

But he saw as he still smoked and pondered, that it was equally
possible that his whole conclusions were erroneous. Austin
unquestionably might be, as he pictured himself, the innocent victim
of the real murderer’s plant.

His thoughts turned to Cosgrove Ponson. Here was another man who had
an interest in Sir William’s death. And from what Mr Arbuthnot had
said, his interest might be quite as strong, or even stronger, than
Austin’s. When a man about town who had been living a rather fast life
got into financial difficulties, he was not usually very squeamish as
to how he extricated himself. £75,000 to a man perhaps faced with ruin
would be worth taking a risk for. And if Cosgrove had become hardened
enough to commit the crime, he would probably not have jibbed at
making the plant to throw the suspicion on Austin. Tanner concluded
that if Austin’s alibi held, his next work must be the investigation
of Cosgrove’s life as well as his movements on the night of the
murder.

His whole cogitations therefore simply brought him back to the point
from which he had started. Before he did anything else, every point of
Austin’s alibi must be gone into with the most meticulous care.

Accordingly, having refilled his pipe, he set himself to go over in
detail the story Austin Ponson had told him of his movements on the
night of the murder. He wished not only to be clear in his own mind as
to the sequence of events, but to make a list of the points upon which
he could reasonably hope to obtain confirmatory evidence.

Austin, according to his own statement, left the pavilion of the
Halford boat club at about ten minutes before nine. He rowed to the
Old Ferry, sat there for about ten minutes, until the maid arrived
with the note, then walked to the Abbey and spent a few minutes
searching for Miss Drew and her friends. Failing to find them, he went
to the Franklyns’ house, satisfied himself it was empty, returned to
the Old Ferry, and rowed back to Halford, arriving at the pavilion
about quarter before eleven. There he had waked the caretaker to get
the boat in. He had walked to the Drews’, stayed with them some ten
minutes, going on to his own house, which he reached about twenty
minute past eleven. Now, first, as to the checking of these hours.

Tanner took a sheet of paper, and looking up his note of the times it
had taken him to walk the various distances, and estimating for the
rowing, he made a statement something like a railway time table. When
he had finished he found that the total estimated time which the
journeys should have taken worked out at practically that mentioned by
Austin. So far, then, the story hung together.

Next with regard to outside testimony. What confirmation would it be
reasonable to expect?

From the attendant at the boat club pavilion he should be able to
learn if Austin did take out a boat, and if so, at what hour. Possibly
other persons in the club might have been present, and could
substantiate this point. The attendant would also know the hour at
which he was called out on Austin’s return. The Drews would certainly
have remarked the time of Austin’s call, and lastly, the latter’s own
servants would be sure to remember the hour of his return. There
should be ample—indeed overwhelming—evidence of the times at which
Austin set out with his boat and returned.

So far so good, but it was clear to Tanner that if he could get no
further corroboration than this, the whole alibi was worthless. One
point—but that a vital point—would remain unsubstantiated. Austin
might have left and returned at the hours he stated, but where was he
between them? Did he go to the Abbey and the Franklyns’? If he did, he
could not have been to Luce Manor, and necessarily was innocent. How
was this to be ascertained?

There were, of course, the footprints. That these were made by
Austin’s shoes was beyond question. The fact that the latter were new
prevented the marks showing the individuality that might otherwise
have been expected, but against that, at one point on the edge of the
left sole there was a slight dint—caused possibly by striking a
stone—and this dint was faithfully reproduced in the prints. It was
too much to suppose that two separate pairs of similar shoes should
have similar dints.

But two other points were by no means beyond question. Though it was
certain that Austin’s shoes had passed over that ground, how could it
be proved that Austin was then wearing them? How, again, could it be
known that they were made at the time stated? Could not Austin really
have been at Luce Manor on that evening, and have made the tracks to
the Abbey at some other time? Tanner was puzzled. He did not see how
this point was to be cleared up.

Next morning he began his investigation at the pavilion of the Halford
boat club. It was quite a large place, situated on a kind of bay on
the river, just below the town. The house was built of red brick, with
heavy overhanging eaves, and a kind of piazza in front. Before the
piazza and stretching a good way past it in each direction, was the
wharf wall, with several broad flights of steps leading to the river.
Out on the water were moored some dozen or more boats, and others were
in the railed-off space surrounding the house. Tanner pushed open the
gate of this railing and entered.

At first he could see no one about, then, as he walked round the
house, he came on a youngish man in a cap and a blue jersey, who was
washing out one of the boats. He hailed him, and they got into
conversation in a leisurely way. Tanner praised the house and general
appearance of the place, and then gradually came to the object of his
call.

He had no trouble in obtaining the required information. The caretaker
remembered Austin taking out the boat on the Wednesday night. He
confirmed the latter’s statement on all points, and was quite certain
of the hours he had left and returned.

‘Mr Ponson was in a rare old hurry to be away,’ went on the man. ‘The
boat he wanted was out, but it was just coming round the bend there,
and I told him to wait a moment and he could have it. Well, he did
wait, but he was all jumping like a hen on a hot griddle to be off.
“Hang it, Stevens,” he says, “are those people going to be all night?”
But Mr Brocklehurst, that was him who had out the boat, was sculling
in quite fast. Well, sir, I fixed up the boat, and let him have it,
and he rowed off like a blooming paddle steamer. I couldn’t but laugh
when I watched him going down the river.’

‘What time did you say that was?’

‘It was ten minutes to nine. Mr Brocklehurst got ashore about the
quarter, and it took me about five minutes to get the boat squared
up.’

‘And you say he rooted you out of bed when he got back?’

‘Yes, sir. It was a quarter to eleven, and I had just put out the
light.’

Tanner was nothing if not thorough. He went to the police station,
learnt that Mr Brocklehurst was a solicitor with an office in the main
street, and promptly called on him. In five minutes he had his
information. Mr Brocklehurst had reached the pavilion about quarter
before nine, for he recollected that as he had arrived at his house
the town clock had struck nine.

The inspector then turned his steps to Elm Cottage, the residence of
the Drews. Apart from the question of the alibi, he was anxious to
meet Miss Drew and form his own conclusions as to the part she would
be likely to play in the matter.

Elm Cottage was a small detached villa, set some twenty yards back
from the road, and surrounded by a tiny, but well-kept garden. Tanner
sent in his card, and was taken to a low and rather dark drawing-room
at the back of the house, from which however there was a fine view of
the river. Everything bore traces of culture and taste, but of rather
straitened means. The room wanted papering, the carpet was worn, the
furniture shabby. But what there was of it was good, there was
everywhere neatness and spotless cleanliness, and the otherwise
somewhat drab effect was met by means of flowers in bowls and vases.
If the room bore the impress of Miss Drew’s character, as Tanner
suspected, it showed her a fine girl, bravely determined to make the
best of things which she could not remedy.

In a few moments she joined him, and as the Inspector looked at her
face, he felt the character he had imagined of her was there. A low,
broad forehead crowned by masses of dark hair surmounted two dark,
intelligent eyes, which met his own with steady directness. Her nose
was small, her lips rather full but delicately modelled, and her chin
firm and well-rounded. Indeed, if anything, the lower part of her face
might be considered a trifle too much developed for perfect symmetry.
It gave her almost too pronounced an appearance of strength and
determination, and Tanner felt she would be a person to be reckoned
with. But as they talked he became convinced her power would never be
used except to further what she believed to be just and right.

‘I have to apologise, madame, for this intrusion,’ he said
courteously, ‘but I have been sent down by Scotland Yard to inquire
into the circumstances attending the death of Sir William Ponson. Mr
Austin Ponson has told me of the hoax which was played on him on the
same evening, and we discussed whether there might not possibly be
some connection. He mentioned your name, and I ventured to call to ask
you if you would please tell me what you know about it.’

‘Did Mr Ponson tell you we are engaged?’

‘He did, Miss Drew, under promise of secrecy. He gave that as his
excuse for mentioning your name, also saying he had your authority to
do so.’

‘And what precisely do you want me to tell you?’

‘Anything you can about it, please. What, for example, was the first
you heard of it?’

The girl did not reply for a moment. Then she answered with another
question.

‘Just let me understand you, if you please, Mr Inspector. Do you doubt
Mr Ponson’s story, and are you looking for confirmation?’

Inspector Tanner hesitated in his turn.

‘I think, Miss Drew,’ he said quietly, ‘that you would probably prefer
me to tell you the exact truth.’

She nodded and he went on.

‘The answer to your question is Yes and No. In the ordinary routine
way I asked Mr Ponson where he himself was on Wednesday night. Such a
question is always asked under such circumstances, and it has no
unpleasant significance. In answer to it he told me about the hoax.
The story seemed to me probable, and I saw no reason for doubting it.
But that did not absolve me from trying in every way I could to test
its truth. You must see that I was bound to do so. And I may be
allowed to say that all the inquiries I have made up to the present
confirm what Mr Ponson told me.’

‘But why does it matter whether or not his story is true?’

Tanner felt very uncomfortable. Though hardened by a life of contact
with crime, he was a good fellow at heart, and he disliked intensely
giving pain, especially to women. But as he looked into the steady,
truthful eyes of the girl before him, he felt he could not
prevaricate.

‘I would rather not tell you,’ he answered, ‘but if you insist, I
will.’

‘I insist.’

‘Well, I am sorry to say we don’t exactly understand how Sir William
died. There is a doubt that it may have been suicide or even murder.
Let me make it clear that this is by no means certain, but I am bound
to say that the idea has occurred to us that the murderer, if there
was one, hoaxed Mr Ponson to try to throw suspicion on him.’

The girl’s face paled, but she gave no other sign of emotion.

‘I dreaded it,’ she replied in a low tone, ‘and he dreaded it too. We
talked the whole thing over on the afternoon of the day the body was
found, and we couldn’t see any reason why Sir William should have gone
down to the boat of his own accord. And then this hoax looked as if it
had been made for just what you say. But I am at least thankful you
take that view and don’t suspect Mr Ponson of inventing the whole
thing. That, I may say now, was what I really feared.’

‘I can only repeat that all the inquiries I have made up to the
present have confirmed Mr Ponson’s story, and I have no reason
whatever to think he invented it.’

‘Thank you for that at all events. Now what do you want me to do?’

‘To tell me at what hours Mr Ponson came and left here on the
Wednesday night, and what took place while he was here.’

‘He came at eleven—almost exactly. I looked at the clock when the ring
came, for we seldom had so late a call. He showed me the two notes he
had received, and asked me about them. When I explained I had not
written them he told us—my father was present—the whole story of the
hoax. As I have said, he did not stay, leaving in about ten minutes.’

Tanner rose.

‘Thank you, Miss Drew. That is all I want to know. I am sorry for
having come on unpleasant business, and exceedingly grateful for the
way you have met me.’

She also rose and held out her hand.

‘I hope you will let me know how you get on,’ she said.

‘You may trust me,’ he promised, and bowing low, took his leave.

As he walked slowly towards Austin’s villa, Tanner thought over the
interview he had just had. He felt sure that the accounts he had heard
of Miss Drew—that she was ‘a fine girl’ and ‘a real lady’—were true.
He believed she was the kind of girl who would marry neither for
wealth nor position, and the fact that she had consented to an
engagement with Austin seemed to speak well for the latter.

His thoughts turned back to the point about the alibi which still
worried him—whether Austin had really been at the Abbey at the time he
said. And suddenly a way in which he might test the matter occurred to
him. The shoes which made the tracks Tanner had found had, so Austin
had said, been bought by him in London on the Monday. He, Tanner, had
got them from Austin after the inquest on Friday. If he could trace
the movements of those shoes from Monday to Friday, would light not be
thrown on the problem? Tanner thought it worth while trying.

Not far from the door of Austin Ponson’s house a police constable was
moving slowly along his beat. The Inspector went over to him.

‘Have you seen Mr Ponson lately?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the man, ‘he and Lady and Miss Ponson passed in
the car about half an hour ago, going towards London.’

This was a fortunate chance, and relieved the Inspector of a possibly
tedious wait, as he wished to make his call at the house when Austin
was from home. He now rang at the door. The butler appeared.

‘Is Mr Ponson at home?’

‘No, sir. He went out about half an hour ago. I expect him back about
six. What name shall I say?’

‘Tanner. Inspector Tanner of New Scotland Yard. I am sorry Mr Ponson
is out as I wished to ask him for a little information, but perhaps if
you would be so kind you might be able to give it to me.’

The butler was obviously impressed by the occupation of his visitor,
and Tanner felt sure his curiosity would also be aroused.

‘If you will come in I shall be glad to do what I can.’

‘Now, Mr—? I didn’t hear your name?’

‘Lewis. John Lewis.’

‘Well, Mr Lewis, Mr Ponson told me a curious story of a hoax that had
been played on him last Wednesday night. I was down, you know, about
Sir William’s death, and we got talking. You know about the hoax, I
suppose?’

‘Not a word,’ the butler answered, his manner portraying keen
interest.

‘He didn’t tell me it was any secret. He got a note on Wednesday
evening asking him to go out to meet some friends that night at the
Abbey ruin.’

The butler nodded several times.

‘Yes, I remember that note. I found it in the hall-door letter-box. It
must have been left by private messenger, for there was no postmark on
it. After Mr Austin had read it he came asking me where I had found
it. He seemed kind of puzzled about it.’

‘That would be it,’ Tanner agreed. ‘He went out to the Abbey, but when
he reached it there was no one there and he had his journey for
nothing. Someone had hoaxed him properly.’

‘Bless us all!’ ejaculated the butler. ‘You don’t say?’

‘Mr Ponson asked me when I was here to look into the thing for him and
I did. I found some footsteps there that might give a clue, but the
worst of it is I don’t know whether they weren’t made by himself.
Maybe, Mr Lewis, you would help me there. I would be much obliged, I’m
sure.’

‘Certainly, Mr Tanner. I’d be pleased if you’d tell me how.’

‘All I want is to see the shoes Mr Ponson wore on Wednesday night, so
as I can compare them with the prints.’

The butler’s face fell.

‘That’s just the one thing I can’t do,’ he answered. ‘They’re not
here. I missed them on Friday, and told Mr Austin. He said they were
not comfortable, and he had sent them to be stretched.’

‘They were new, then?’

‘Yes, he got them in town on Monday.’

‘It was curious he should wear them that night if they weren’t
comfortable.’

‘I suppose he hadn’t found it out. That evening was the first time he
had had them on.’

‘I see.’ Tanner nodded his head, then continued, ‘What time did he go
out, Mr Lewis?’

‘About eight or a bit after.’

‘And when did he get back?’

‘A little before half-past eleven. I brought him some whisky, and when
I was coming out of his room the clock struck the half-hour.’

‘And he didn’t go out again that night?’

‘No, he went to bed about twelve. I heard him go up.’

‘I see. And what was the next occasion he wore those shoes?’

‘There wasn’t no next occasion. That was the only time he had them
on.’

Tanner considered. This seemed to be pretty conclusive, but he was
anxious to obtain even stronger evidence. After a moment he went on
again.

‘I’m afraid I’m not quite clear about the thing yet. What I want to
get at is whether anyone else could have got hold of those shoes and
made the tracks I saw at the Abbey.’

‘If that’s all’s worrying you, you may make your mind easy. Those
shoes were in my charge from Monday evening till Mr Ponson put them on
on Wednesday after dinner. Then I brought them down to clean before I
went to bed that night, and they were there till he took them on
Friday. I remarked them particularly because they were new, and if
anyone had touched them I would have known. Besides, there was no one
about that could do it.’

‘What state were they in when you cleaned them?’

‘Muddy—very wet and muddy. I couldn’t think where Mr Austin had been
to get them into such a condition.’

‘One more question, Mr Lewis. You tell me the shoes were not worn
except on Wednesday evening. But could someone else not have worn them
then? Suppose Mr Austin went out wearing some other pair, and some one
else slipped in and got hold of these and made the tracks, and then
put back the shoes without your knowing?’

The butler looked at the other with an expression of pitying scorn.

‘Why, Mr Inspector, I’m not altogether a fool. I tell you I saw them
on Mr Austin’s feet when he was going out, and I saw them on his feet
when he was coming in, so they weren’t in the house for anyone else to
take. And what’s more, if that doesn’t convince you, every other pair
of Mr Austin’s boots and shoes were in the house that evening. I know
because I happened to look over them to see if any wanted mending. So
if anyone else had his new shoes he must have been going about himself
in his socks.’

It was enough. This placed the affair beyond doubt, or it would if one
other point were settled. Tanner rose.

‘I am extremely obliged to you, Mr Lewis, and now I must beg your
pardon for having played a little trick on you. I have the shoes. Mr
Ponson gave them to me on Friday. Come with me to the hotel and have a
drink, and tell me if the shoes I have are the ones you were speaking
of, and that’ll be all I’ll ask you.’

That the butler was suspicious there was more in the questions than
met the eye was obvious, but he made no remark, and on seeing the
shoes, he identified them unhesitatingly as Austin’s.

Tanner was pleased with the result of his inquiries. As he summed up
the situation it stood as follows:

Austin had left Halford and returned to it at such hours as would have
just enabled him to reach the Abbey in the interval. Therefore, if he
did reach it he could not have been at Luce Manor, and if he was not
at Luce Manor he was innocent. Footprints were made at the Abbey by a
certain pair of shoes. Those shoes were at Austin’s house every moment
of the time from their purchase till they came into Tanner’s
possession, except during the particular period in question. The
tracks at the Abbey must therefore have been made during this period.
Further, during this period Austin himself must have been wearing the
shoes, as not only had he left his house and returned to it wearing
them, but he had no others to put on—the remainder were all at his
house. If, therefore, Austin did not himself make the tracks at the
Abbey, he must have had no shoes during the time this was being done,
in which case he could hardly have been at Luce Manor committing the
murder. To Tanner the alibi was complete. Short of seeing Austin at
the Abbey, he could expect no stronger evidence.

Even if the truth of Austin’s story were unlikely, Tanner would have
felt compelled to believe it. But, as he had seen from the start, it
was by no means unlikely. On the contrary the whole thing was just the
kind of plant the real murderer might probably enough devise to shift
suspicion from himself to Austin. That it was such a plant Tanner now
felt certain.

And if so, had it not one rather suggestive point? The man who made
the plant was familiar with Austin and his affairs. Who, of those who
knew the affairs of both Austin and Sir William, had an interest in
the latter’s death?

The answer was not far to seek. One such at least was Cosgrove Ponson.
He had both the knowledge and the motive. Tanner felt his next
business must be with the cousin.

And then a more sinister idea entered the Inspector’s mind. What if
there was more in the plant than a mere attempt to shift the suspicion
off the murderer? What if the plan was to encompass Austin’s death as
well? If Austin were convicted and executed it would make a great
difference to Cosgrove apart from rendering his position safe. Tanner
recalled the terms of the will. If Sir William died Cosgrove received
£75,000, but if Austin also should lose his life his cousin would net
another £30,000. Here was motive enough for anything.

Tanner recollected the woman who, Austin had stated, had handed him
the note at the Old Ferry. As the latter’s story must now be taken as
true, this must be a real woman, and if Cosgrove were the guilty man
she must be his accomplice.

Here was a line of inquiry which might lead to something. Tanner
decided he would return to town by the next train, and start this new
phase of the case.



CHAPTER VI.

What Cosgrove Had to Tell

At three o’clock that same afternoon Inspector Tanner stepped from the
train at St Pancras. He had telephoned to the Yard before leaving
Halford, and, as a result, one of his men was awaiting him on the
platform.

‘Ah, Hilton,’ the Inspector greeted him. ‘I want you to go over to
Knightsbridge and look up a man for me—a Mr Cosgrove Ponson who has
rooms at Number 174B. All you need find out is whether or not he is at
home. I’ll follow you round in a couple of hours, and you can report
to me there.’

This arranged, Tanner took a taxi and was driven to his house at
Fulham.

Town was very hot. The sun poured down out of an almost brazen sky,
taking the freshness from the air and turning the streets into canals
of swimming heat. The narrow courts were stifling, the open spaces
shone with a blinding glare. Dust was everywhere, a dry burning dust
which parched the throat and made the eyeballs smart. As Tanner looked
around him he recalled with regret the green lawns and shady trees of
Luce Manor.

A couple of hours later he emerged from his house, resplendent in a
silk hat and frock coat, with well-fitting gloves and a gold-headed
cane. Taking another taxi, he drove to Knightsbridge. There he
dismissed his vehicle, and approaching his man, Hilton, made him a
slight sign. The other responded by nodding his head. Cosgrove, the
Inspector understood, had gone out.

Sauntering leisurely across the road, Tanner mounted the steps of the
house and rang. The door was opened by a dark, clean-shaven
manservant.

‘Mr Ponson is not at home, sir,’ he said in reply to the Inspector’s
inquiry, as he reached back for a salver.

Tanner held out a card engraved ‘Mr Reginald Willoughby, The Albany.’

‘I rather wanted to see Mr Ponson on business,’ he went on. ‘Do you
think he’ll soon be back?’

‘I think so, sir. He’ll almost certainly be in before seven.’

The Inspector glanced at his watch.

‘I have half an hour to spare. I think I’ll come in and wait.’

‘Very good, sir,’ the man replied, as he led the way to a large
sitting-room on the first floor.

Left to himself, Tanner began by looking carefully round the room, and
noting and memorising its contents. It was furnished as a library,
with huge leather-covered chairs, and a large roll-top desk. The walls
were lined with bookshelves, relieved here and there by a good print.
The air was heavy with the scent of innumerable roses, arranged in
bowls of silver and old china. Books and papers, mostly of a sporting
character, were littered on chairs and occasional tables. Cosgrove
Ponson, it was evident, was not hard up in the sense in which the
words are understood by the man in the street.

Tanner waited motionless for a few minutes, then rising softly, he
tiptoed over to the roll-top desk and tried the lid. It was locked.
Slipping a small tool from his pocket, he gently inserted it in the
lock, and after a few turns he was able to push the shutter
noiselessly up.

The desk was littered with papers. Tanner sat down before it and began
a systematic though rapid search. He wanted to find out for himself
Cosgrove’s exact financial position as well as, if possible, the names
of any lady friends, one of whom might have impersonated Mrs
Franklyn’s servant.

But he had no luck. It seemed likely Cosgrove must have some other
desk or sanctum in which he kept his more private correspondence.
There were here notes, invitations, bills, a few receipts, and other
miscellaneous papers, but no bank-book nor anything to give a clue to
his means. Nor were any of the letters from female correspondents
couched in sufficiently familiar language to seem worthy of a second
thought.

Considerably disappointed, Tanner pursued his search according to the
regular routine he employed in such cases, ending up when he had
finished with the letters by drawing a small mirror from his pocket
and with it examining the blotting paper. He rapidly scanned the
various sheets, and was just about to put them down as useless when
his eye lit on the blurred and partial impression of an address. It
consisted of three lines. The first he could not read, the second he
thought was Gracechurch Street, following an undecipherable number,
while the third was clear—the word ‘City.’ He had not noticed this
address on any of the papers, and he now remarked it only because it
seemed to suggest finance. Thinking it might be worth while trying to
decipher the name, he slipped the page out of the blotter and secreted
it in his pocket. Then silently closing the desk he tiptoed to the
door. After listening for a moment at the keyhole he opened it and
stepped stealthily out.

Several doors opened off the passage, and Tanner stood for a moment
wondering which led to the room of which he was in search. At last he
selected one, and having ascertained from the keyhole that all was
quiet within, he silently turned the handle. It opened into a
dining-room. Withdrawing in the same noiseless manner he tried the
next, to find himself in a spare bedroom. But the third door led to
his goal. It was evidently Cosgrove’s dressing-room, and there at the
opposite wall was what he was looking for—a long line of Cosgrove’s
boots and shoes. A moment’s examination sufficed. Cosgrove’s foot was
too big to have made the tracks of the fifth man at the Luce Manor
boathouse. Silently he returned to his seat in the library.

He looked at his watch. His search had lasted thirty-five minutes. He
rang the bell.

‘I am sorry I cannot wait for Mr Ponson,’ he told the butler. ‘I shall
write to him.’

That evening he sat down to re-examine the sheet of blotting paper. He
studied the second line for several minutes, and at last came to the
conclusion his first idea had been correct. It was apparently
Gracechurch Street. But the number was quite beyond him.

Taking a street directory he began to go through the Gracechurch
Street names, comparing each with the blot-sheet marks. He had been
through about half when he came on one that seemed the correct
shape—Messrs Moses Erckstein & Co. And when he saw that Messrs
Erckstein were money-lenders, he felt hopeful that he was on the right
track. But he was very thorough. He worked through the whole list,
lest there should be some other name even more like that on the sheet.
But there was none.

Next morning he called on Messrs Erckstein. He was again wearing his
silk hat and frock coat, and with these clothes he put on, to some
extent at least, the manners of what our friends across the pond call
a club man. He had made inquiries about the firm, and he now asked for
the senior partner. After a delay of a few minutes he was shown into
the latter’s room.

Mr Erckstein was stout and dark, with a short black beard and Semitic
features. Tanner had found out that, though he had been a German
before the War, he was now a Pole.

He proved an unwilling witness. It was not until Tanner had wasted
over an hour, and threatened his informant with a summons to Court,
where his books and his methods would be probed mercilessly in public,
that he got what he required.

Cosgrove Ponson, it appeared, was, and had been for many years,
heavily in the firm’s debt. Including interest at the exorbitant rate
charged, he now owed the money-lenders close on £30,000. Moreover, he
had recently been severely pressed for part payment. Tanner, after a
lot of trouble, saw copies of the letters sent, the last of which
politely but unmistakably threatened proceedings and ruin unless the
interest at least was immediately paid.

‘Why did you lend such a large sum?’ Tanner asked.

‘Because of his uncle, Mr Tanner. Sir William Ponson thought a lot of
Mr Cosgrove, and he would have helped him. Now that he is dead we
shall get our money. We understand Mr Cosgrove comes into a handsome
legacy.’

When Tanner left the office he was more than satisfied as to the
strength of Cosgrove’s motive for the crime. Far stronger it appeared
to him than that of Austin. It looked as if he was on the right track
at last.

Hailing a taxi, he handed the driver a pound in advance and instructed
him in detail as to what he wished done. Then he stepped into the
vehicle and was driven to Knightsbridge.

Within view of Cosgrove’s chambers the car swung close to the sidewalk
and the engine stopped. The driver sprang down, and opening the
bonnet, became engrossed with his engine. It was obvious a slight
mishap had taken place.

Tanner sat well back in the car watching the house before him. It was
getting on towards one. For more than half an hour the repairs
continued. Then the Inspector saw Cosgrove leave his door and hail a
taxi. He called softly to his own driver, and the work at the engine
being completed at just that moment, the latter mounted and started
the car.

‘Keep that taxi in sight,’ Tanner ordered as they moved forward.

The chase was not a long one—down Piccadilly, across the Circus and
into Shaftesbury Avenue. There the quarry turned into a narrow lane
and Tanner, leaping out of his taxi, saw the other stop at the stage
door of the Follies Theatre. He turned back to his own car.

‘Pick me up when I sign and follow it again,’ he said to his driver,
then, becoming absorbed in a bookseller’s window immediately opposite
the end of the lane in which the other car stood, he waited.

With the corner of his eye he had seen Cosgrove enter the theatre, and
after some ten minutes he observed him emerge following a lady whom he
handed into his taxi. Rapidly Tanner regained his own vehicle, and as
the other swept out of the lane and turned west, his driver took up
his former position behind it.

Once again the chase was short. Reaching the Strand, the leading car
turned into the courtyard of the Savoy. As he stepped out of his taxi
Tanner was in time to see his victims entering the great building. He
followed quickly to the restaurant, and while they were looking for a
table, slipped a couple of pounds into the head waiter’s hand.

‘I am from Scotland Yard,’ he whispered. ‘Put me beside that lady and
gentleman like a good fellow.’

The head waiter led him forward and presently he found himself seated
at a small table immediately behind Cosgrove. The lady was on
Cosgrove’s right and from where he sat the Inspector could see her
without appearing to stare. He recognised her immediately as Miss
Betty Belcher, one of the most talented and popular actresses in
London.

She was a woman of about thirty, small, sprightly, and rather inclined
to stoutness. Her features were delicate, her complexion creamy, and
her eyes large and of the lightest blue. Her lips were just a trifle
thin, and in repose wore the suspicion of a pout. But her glory was
her hair. It was of a deep rich gold, piled up in great masses above
her low forehead. Famous for her play in light, sparkling parts, her
vivacity on the stage was unrivalled. But here she was not vivacious.
On the contrary, both she and Cosgrove seemed ill at ease. While the
waiter was serving them they discoursed on everyday topics, but when
he passed on their voices dropped and Tanner could no longer overhear
them.

It was evident from their expressions they were discussing some
serious matter, and Tanner strained his ears to learn its nature. For
a time he was unsuccessful, but at last during lulls in the general
conversation he caught enough to enlighten him. Disconnectedly and
without the context he heard Cosgrove use the words ‘inquest
adjourned,’ and ‘detective,’ and later the lady said something very
like ‘suspicion aroused’ and once again, unquestionably, the phrase
‘the alibi should hold.’

Inspector Tanner was extremely interested. Obviously they were talking
about the Luce Manor tragedy, and from the reference to the alibi they
seemed to have very first-hand information of Austin’s affairs. This,
however, was natural enough and by no means suspicious. But the
expression of anxiety on the lady’s face was not so natural. Tanner
wished he was sure of its cause.

After coffee Cosgrove lit a cigarette, and the Inspector was rather
thrilled to notice it was of a light-brown colour. His thought turned
to the end he had discovered in the Luce Manor boathouse. If
Cosgrove’s case contained the same unusual brand as that found at Luce
Manor, his suspicions would undoubtedly be strengthened.

Cosgrove smoked quietly, while Tanner paid his bill and got ready to
leave the restaurant. At last the others made a move, Cosgrove
dropping the cigarette end into the saucer of his coffee cup. Tanner
moved aside, and turned his back till they had passed, then returning
to his table as if he had forgotten something, he rapidly picked up
the cigarette end, quenched it and dropped it into one of the little
boxes he always carried. Then he hurried out after his quarry, and as
they took another taxi, re-entered his own.

This time they had a longer run. It was not till they reached Lyme
Avenue, Chelsea, that the chase ended. There at the door of a block of
flats the two dismounted. But Cosgrove did not go in. When the lady
had disappeared he returned to his taxi, and started back towards
London. Tanner’s driver had run on towards the end of the road, but he
skilfully manœuvred for position, and soon was back in his own place
behind the other.

At the door of the Huntingdon Club in Piccadilly, Cosgrove dismounted,
paid off his driver and entered the building. This suiting Tanner’s
plans as well as anything else, he also paid his man, and after a few
minutes followed Cosgrove into the club.

Handing the porter another of his false cards—Mr Percival
Hepworth-Jones, The Constitutional—he asked for Cosgrove, and was
shown into a waiting-room.

In about ten minutes Cosgrove appeared—a questioning, puzzled look on
his thin, good-looking face.

‘I must apologise, Mr Ponson,’ began the Inspector, ‘for sending in a
card which is not my own. You are wondering where you have seen me
before?’

‘I confess that I am. I know your face, but I can’t recall our
meeting.’

‘We didn’t meet, but you saw me at the inquest at Luce Manor. I am
Inspector Tanner of Scotland Yard, and I have been put in charge of
the case.’

The Inspector, who was watching the other keenly, noticed a sudden
look flash across his face and then disappear. It was not exactly a
look of alarm. Rather was it that of a man brought suddenly face to
face with a danger he had long recognised—a kind of bracing of himself
to meet a crisis which was at last at hand. But his manner was free
from any trace of anxiety as he motioned his visitor to a chair.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘of course. I remember now. My cousin, Austin
Ponson, told me about you. So you fear my uncle’s end might have been
suicide? It is a horrible idea, and you won’t mind my saying that I
cannot but think you are wrong. He was not at all that kind of man.’

‘So I am beginning to think, Mr Ponson. But orders are orders. I have
been told to investigate and report, and I must do so.’

Cosgrove agreed and they conversed for some time. Tanner asked a good
many questions, but without learning anything of interest. Then at
last he came to the real object of his visit. Speaking very much as he
had done to Austin, he asked Cosgrove to state his own movements on
the fatal Wednesday night. Cosgrove, unlike Austin, got on his high
horse.

‘Really, Inspector, I think that’s a little too much. Why should I
tell you anything of the kind? What has it to do with the affair?’

Tanner could be direct enough when he saw cause.

‘Why this, Mr Ponson,’ he answered, still watching the other keenly.
‘As you must see, the possibility of suicide involves that of murder
also. The question I have asked you is asked in such cases as a matter
of course to every one interested.’

Cosgrove started slightly at the last words.

‘Interested?’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean by that? Do you think I
was interested?’

‘Mr Ponson, as reasonable men we must both see that you were
interested. You will forgive me—I don’t wish to be offensive—but it is
common knowledge that you are in low water financially, and that you
benefit considerably under the will.’

‘Good Heavens!’ Ponson cried angrily, ‘and do you actually mean to say
you suspect me of _murdering_ Sir William?’

‘I mean nothing of the kind, Mr Ponson. I only want to justify myself
in asking you the question to which you have just objected.’

Cosgrove did not reply. At last Tanner went on in a courteous tone:

‘Obviously, I cannot force you to answer me, Mr Ponson. But it must be
clear to you that should you decline you may raise suspicions which,
no matter how unfounded, are bound to be unpleasant. Please don’t
think I am speaking threateningly. You can see the matter as clearly
as I.’

The Inspector’s moderation appeared to bring Cosgrove, to a decision.
He moved nervously, and then replied:

‘I suppose you are right, Inspector, and that I have no cause to
resent your inquiries. I haven’t the slightest objection to telling
you where I was when you explain yourself as you have just done.’

‘I am much obliged. It will save me a lot of trouble.’

Cosgrove settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair.

‘I remember that Wednesday night,’ he began, ‘for I did one of the
silliest things that night that I have ever been guilty of, and I
think I may say without bragging I am usually as wide awake as most
people. But I shall tell you.

‘You know, or perhaps you don’t, that I go in a good deal for racing.
I have a small stable not far from Bath, and I make a bit off dealing
and training as well as on the course. For some time I have wanted
another horse, and there was one for sale near Montrose that seemed
the thing, so much so that I determined to run down and see it. I have
a good many engagements, mostly of a social kind, and I found that the
only day I could go was the Thursday of last week—the day after my
poor Uncle disappeared. There was an “At Home” at the Duchess of
Frothingham’s on the Wednesday afternoon, and a ball at Lincolnshire
House on Friday evening, at both of which I wished to be present, so I
decided to travel to Montrose by the night train on Wednesday, see the
horse on Thursday, return to London that night, and get some sleep on
Friday, so as to be fresh for the evening.

‘This programme I carried out, but not quite as I had intended. I was
at the Duchess of Frothingham’s till a little after five, when I
returned home, dined and drove to King’s Cross to catch the 7.15 for
the north. This train was due at Montrose about 5.30 the next morning,
and it was my intention to drive the three or four miles out to the
training stables and see the horses at their early exercise, returning
to town when convenient.

‘I reached King’s Cross in good time, found the sleeping berth which I
had engaged was ready for me, deposited my things therein, and began
to make myself comfortable. Wishing to smoke I drew out my cigar-case,
and then I discovered it was empty. I was considerably annoyed, not
only for my own sake, but because I wished to be able to offer a smoke
to the man with whom I hoped to deal. I glanced at my watch. It was
still ten minutes past seven. Thinking I had plenty of time I seized
my hat and ran to the refreshment room, which was close by. As I was
selecting some cigars I glanced up at the refreshment room clock. It
was pointing to 7.15.

‘“Your clock’s fast, I suppose?” I said.

‘“No, I don’t think so,” the girl answered.

‘I left the cigars on the counter and ran out on the platform. But the
clock was right, and all I saw was my train moving off. It was already
going too fast to board, and I had to accept the fact that it was gone
with my luggage in the sleeping berth.

‘I looked at my watch. It was still showing two minutes to the
quarter. It was usually an excellent timekeeper, but in some way which
I can’t account for just on the occasion that mattered, it was three
minutes slow. Pretty maddening, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s the way things happen,’ said Tanner philosophically.

‘Isn’t it? Well, I got my cigars, and then I went to the
Stationmaster’s Office and asked what I should do. It appeared there
was a comparatively slow train to Dundee at 8.30, but the next to
Montrose was the express at 10.30. Even by taking a car from Dundee
this earlier train would not get me to the stables in time for the
morning exercise, so I decided my best plan would be to take the
10.30. I then asked about a sleeping berth. But here my luck was out.
All those on the 10.30 were engaged.

‘“And what about my things that have gone on in the 7.15?” I asked.

‘“They will be all right,” the clerk answered. “The first stop of both
the 7.15 and the 10.30 is Grantham, and I shall wire the agent there
to have your things collected from the 7.15 and handed in to you on
the 10.30.”

‘This seemed the best arrangement, and I thanked the man, and having
telegraphed to the dealer at Montrose, I strolled out of the station,
wondering how I could best put in my three hours.

‘More by force of habit than otherwise I took a taxi and drove back to
my rooms. But my little adventure had made me restless, and I couldn’t
settle down to spend a lonely evening. I would have liked to go to the
Follies and see my friend Miss Betty Belcher, but I knew she was
acting all the evening except during part of the second act, say from
about 9.30 till 10.00. To pass the time till 9.30 I at last decided to
go to the Empire. I did so. I left my rooms almost at once, drove to
the Empire, sat there for an hour or so, and then went to the Follies.
From about 9.30 till 10.00 I sat with Miss Belcher in her room, then
when it was nearly time for her to go on again I made my adieux and
returned to King’s Cross. I took care not to miss the 10.30, and at
Grantham I got out and found a porter looking for me with my things. I
duly reached Montrose about half-past eight next morning. So I trust
you won’t any longer suspect me of being at Halford.’

Tanner laughed.

‘How was I to know, sir, what you did until you told me? I am very
greatly obliged. You have saved me an immensity of useless work.’

Cosgrove Ponson was quite mollified. He seemed like a man from whose
shoulders a weight had been removed. He took out his cigar-case.

‘I don’t know if it will confirm my story,’ he said smiling, ‘but I
hope in any case you will smoke one of the actual cigars I bought at
King’s Cross.’

The Inspector accepted. He asked a few more questions, obtained the
name of the Montrose horse-dealer, and then, with further compliments
and thanks, took his leave.

It was obvious to him that, if true, Cosgrove’s story made a complete
alibi. If he had been at King’s Cross at 7.30 o’clock, at the Follies
Theatre at 9.30, and had travelled from King’s Cross to Montrose by
the 10.30 express it was out of the question that he could have been
at Luce Manor. Satisfied as Tanner was as to the soundness of Austin
Ponson’s alibi, Cosgrove’s was even more convincing, and what was
better still, it would be easier to test. Though he did not believe
Cosgrove would make such a statement unless it could bear the
touchstone of inquiry, Tanner felt his obvious next business would be
to check what he had just heard so fully as to remove all possible
doubt of Cosgrove’s innocence.



CHAPTER VII.

Cosgrove’s Trip North

On leaving Cosgrove Ponson, Inspector Tanner walked slowly up the
shady side of Regent Street, his mind still running on the statement
to which he had just listened. To test its truth was his obvious first
duty, and as he sauntered along he considered the quickest and most
thorough means of doing so. From the very nature of the story he felt
inclined to believe it. Too much independent testimony seemed to be
available for the alibi to be a fraud.

And if this was so, he, Tanner, was on the wrong track, and was
wasting time. He had already lost nearly a week over Austin, and all
the time he was working on these blind alleys the real scent was
getting cold. But as he reviewed the facts he had learnt, he felt he
could hardly have acted otherwise than as he had.

He considered Cosgrove’s statement point by point. Firstly, was it
true he could only have gone to Scotland on the night in question of
all others? In answer to this it should be easy to find out if he
really was at the Duchess of Frothingham’s on the same afternoon. Then
the missing of the train at King’s Cross must be known to several
persons—the clerk at the stationmaster’s office, the barmaid who sold
the cigars, as well possibly as the sleeping-car attendant, and the
telegraph-office clerk, and copies of the wires to Grantham and to
Montrose should be available. He was not sure that confirmation of
Cosgrove’s visit to the Empire would be obtainable, though some
attendant might have noticed him. But there should be ample proof of
his call on Miss Belcher at the Follies Theatre. Not only would there
be the testimony of Miss Belcher herself, but some of the many
attendants must almost certainly have seen him. Then, if Cosgrove was
not actually seen leaving London by the 10.30 p.m., he must have been
observed in that train at Grantham, where his luggage was handed in to
him. Finally, to ensure that he did not leave the train there and
return to Luce Manor, as well as to test the genuineness of the whole
journey, Tanner could see Colonel Archdale, the horse owner of
Montrose.

And then another point struck him. What, he wondered, were the precise
relations between Cosgrove Ponson and Miss Betty Belcher? From their
demeanour at the restaurant, they were certainly on pretty intimate
terms. In this case could Miss Belcher’s testimony to Cosgrove’s call
at the theatre be relied on? Here was what undoubtedly might be a flaw
in the alibi, and he felt he must handle this part of it with special
care.

As he reached this point in his cogitations he arrived at the goal of
his walk—a small but extremely fashionable tobacconist’s in Oxford
Street. Handing in his card, he asked to see the manager.

He was shown into a small, neatly-furnished office, and there after a
few minutes a tall young man in a grey frock coat joined him.

‘Hallo, Tony,’ said the Inspector when the door had closed.

The newcomer greeted his visitor breezily.

‘Why, Tanner, old son,’ he cried, ‘how goes it? You’re a stranger, you
are. And what’s blown you in today?’

‘Business as usual. I want your help.’

‘You bet your life! And when you want help you know the right place to
come. Tony B won’t see you left, eh?’

‘I know that. You’re not as bad as you look.’

The other winked slowly.

‘And what’s little Albert’s trouble this time?’ he asked.

‘Why this,’ Tanner answered, taking out his two little boxes and
shaking the cigarette ends on to the table. ‘I want to know what kind
of cigarettes these are, and when they were smoked.’

‘H’m. Think I’m a blooming crystal-gazer, do you? Or one of those
Zancigs—what do you call ’em?’

As he spoke he was examining the ends with a strong glass. Then he
smelt them, drew out a shred of tobacco from each and tasted it, and
finally picked them up and took them out of the room.

‘Sit tight, Albert,’ he remarked as he left, ‘and keep your little
hands out of mischief till daddy comes back.’

In a few minutes he re-entered and laid the ends down on the table
with beside them a whole cigarette of a dark yellow colour.

‘There you are, sonny,’ he announced. ‘All chips of the old block,
those are.’

‘And what are they?’ Tanner queried, examining the little brown tube
with interest.

‘Costly rubies, rich and rare,’ his friend assured him. ‘They’re what
we call “Muriquis,” and they’re made in Rio by a firm called Oliveira.
There ain’t many in this village, I tell you. Who are you trailing
now? Is it Henry Ford or only his Majesty the King?’

‘Neither,’ Tanner returned seriously, ‘it’s that Ponson case I’m on.’

‘Never heard of it. But Ponson knows his way about in cigarettes
anyway, you bet your life.’

‘And how long since they were smoked? Can you tell me that?’

‘Nope. Not Tony B. This one about an hour; this one about a week at a
guess. But don’t you take all you hear for gospel. I don’t know, as
the girl said when her lover proposed.’

Tanner, though more bored with his friend’s conversation every time he
met him, remained chatting for some minutes. The two men had been at
school together, and the Inspector kept up the acquaintanceship
because of the valuable information he frequently got on matters
connected with tobacco. But as soon as possible he took his leave,
breathing a sigh of relief when he found himself once more in the
street.

His interest was considerably aroused by the news he had just
received. The suspicions he had entertained of Cosgrove had been
somewhat lulled to rest by the latter’s story. But the fact that the
cigarette-end found in the boathouse at Luce Manor was of that same
rare kind which Cosgrove smoked revived all his doubts, and made him
more than ever resolved to test the alibi to the utmost limit of his
ability.

Before leaving Halford, Tanner had written to the photographers whose
names he had found on the prints in the drawing-room at Luce Manor,
ordering copies of Sir William’s, Austin’s, and Cosgrove’s
photographs. The studio was in Regent Street, and hailing a taxi,
Tanner drove there. The photographs were ready, and he put one of each
in his pocket. Also he selected prints of three or four other men as
like in appearance to the cousins as he could find. Then he went on to
the Duchess of Frothingham’s house in Park Lane.

He saw her Grace’s butler, and representing himself as a reporter on
the staff of a well-known society journal, asked for a list of the
guests present at the ‘At Home’ on the Wednesday of the murder,
discreetly insinuating that he was prepared to pay for the trouble
given. The addendum had the desired effect, and after a considerable
delay a copy of the list was in Tanner’s hands. A glance at it showed
Cosgrove’s name among the others, and a few judicious questions
established the fact that he had actually been present.

Once more in the street, Tanner looked at his watch. It was after six
o’clock.

‘A little dinner and then the Empire,’ he said to himself as he turned
into Piccadilly. He had decided his first step must be to apply to
those sources of information which could not possibly be interested in
Cosgrove’s affairs; afterwards, if need be, hearing what Miss Belcher
had to say on the same subject.

A couple of hours later he reached the Empire. Here he made exhaustive
inquiries, but without finding anyone who had seen his man. But he was
not greatly disappointed, as he had already realised that confirmation
of this part of the alibi was problematical, if not unlikely.

Returning to his taxi, he continued his journey till he reached King’s
Cross. It was just nine o’clock, and the great station was partially
deserted, there being a lull in the traffic about that hour. For the
first time that day Tanner felt cool, and he began to realise that he
was tired. But apart from the general urgency of his business, he
expected the persons he wished to see were on evening duty, and he
decided he must finish his inquiries then and there. He therefore went
to the stationmaster’s office, and sent in his card. A dark,
intelligent looking young man with an alert manner received him, and
to him Tanner explained his business.

‘I did hear something about it,’ the young man returned. ‘If you will
wait a moment I’ll make inquiries.’

He left the room, returning presently with a clerk.

‘Mr Williams here remembers the affair. He dealt with it. Tell this
gentleman what you know, Williams.’

‘On Wednesday evening, the 7th instant, about 7.20 or 25,’ began
Williams, ‘a man called at the office and said he had booked a berth
to Montrose on the 7.15 p.m., but that he had missed the train while
in the refreshment room. He said his suit-case and waterproof had gone
on in the train, and he asked what I would advise him to do.’

‘That’s the man,’ said Tanner, nodding. ‘Yes?’

‘I told him the trains. The next to Montrose was the 10.30 p.m., and
his mistake only meant that he would reach there at 8.24 a.m. instead
of 5.25. But it seemed he wanted to arrive early, and I mentioned the
8.30 p.m. which runs from here to Dundee, suggesting he could go on by
car. But on going into it he decided even this would be too late, and
said he would travel on the 10.30. With regard to his luggage I
offered to wire Grantham, which is the first stop of both the 7.15
p.m. and the 10.30, to have it collected from the sleeping car on the
7.15 p.m., and put into the 10.30. He agreed to this, and I sent the
telegram at once.’

‘Would you know the man if you saw him again?’

‘Yes, I believe I should.’

‘Any of these he?’ and Tanner handed over the half-dozen photographs.

The clerk instantly passed over Sir William’s and those of the
strangers, then he examined Austin’s for some moments with a puzzled
expression, but when he came to Cosgrove’s he hesitated no longer.

‘That’s the man,’ he said, repeating Tanner’s words of a moment
before, ‘I should know him anywhere.’

‘So far so good,’ thought Tanner as he stepped out once more on to the
concourse. ‘Now for the refreshment room.’

He found the platform from which the 7.15 had started on the night in
question, and looked about him. There was little doubt as to where
Cosgrove had gone for his cigars. On the platform itself was a large
sign ‘First-Class-Refreshment Room.’ The Inspector pushed open the
door and entered.

‘Good evening,’ he said, raising his hat politely to the presiding
goddess. ‘I want a few cigars, please.’

‘I have only these,’ the girl answered, placing two partially emptied
boxes before him.

Tanner examined them.

‘I am not much of a judge,’ he informed her, ‘but these look the
lighter. I’ll have half a dozen, please. That is,’ he went on with a
whimsical glance at the clock, ‘if it’s safe.’

The barmaid looked at him as if she thought he was crazy, but she did
not speak and Tanner explained:

‘A friend of mine had an experience here the other night buying
cigars, so he told me. He missed his train over the head of it. I was
wondering if I should do the same.’

A light seemed to dawn on the girl. She laughed.

‘I remember your friend. I couldn’t help smiling, but I was sorry for
him too. He came in here and chose a dozen cigars, and then he looked
up and saw the clock.

‘“Your clock’s fast,” he says.

‘“I _don’t_ think,” I says, and with that he hooked it out of the
door, fair running, and all the cigars lying on the counter. I
couldn’t but laugh at him.’

‘But _he_ didn’t laugh, for he missed his train,’ prompted Tanner.

‘Oh, he missed his train right enough. He came back and showed me his
watch—three minutes slow. But he got his cigars all right.’

Tanner took Austin’s photograph from his pocket, and glancing at it
casually, passed it to the girl.

‘He’s a good old sport, he is,’ he announced, ‘but to look at him
there you wouldn’t think butter would melt in his mouth. What do you
say?’

The girl wrinkled her pretty eyebrows.

‘But that isn’t the man,’ she exclaimed.

Tanner took the card.

‘I’m a blooming idiot,’ he said. ‘I’ve shown you the wrong photo. This
was the one I meant.’ He handed over the print of Cosgrove.

‘Why, yes,’ the girl answered unhesitatingly. ‘That’s him and no
mistake.’

‘He’s a good soul enough,’ went on Tanner, ‘but he was very sick about
that train, I can tell you.’

They conversed for a few moments more as the Inspector lit one of his
purchases. Then with a courteous ‘Goodnight,’ he left the bar.

Whatever else might be true or false in Cosgrove’s statement, thought
Tanner, it was at least bed rock that he had missed the 7.15 train as
he had said. The thing now to be ascertained was whether he really had
travelled by the 10.30.

By dint of persistent inquiries the Inspector found a number of the
men who had been on duty when that train left. But here he was not so
successful. No one so far as he could learn had seen Cosgrove.

But this was not surprising. Tanner could not and did not expect
confirmation from these men. They had had no dealings with Cosgrove
which would have attracted their attention to him. The point could be
better tested at Grantham, where whoever gave him his luggage should
remember the circumstance.

Inspector Tanner glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to ten. Why,
he thought, when he was so far, should he not carry the thing through
right then? He looked up the time tables. A train left at 10.00 p.m.
for Grantham, arriving at 12.28. The 10.30 p.m., following, reached
the same station ten minutes later, proceeding at 12.43. If he went by
the 10.00 he would have fifteen minutes at Grantham to make inquiries,
and he could go on by the 10.30 to Montrose and interview Colonel
Archdale. And if fifteen minutes proved insufficient for his Grantham
business he could sleep there, and go on in the morning.

Five minutes later he was in the train. Though, compared to that
following, it was a slow train, it only made four stops—at Hatfield,
Hitchin, Huntingdon and Peterborough. A minute before time it drew up
at Grantham.

Here Tanner had even less difficulty than at King’s Cross. An official
at the stationmaster’s office remembered the episode of the telegram,
and was able in a few seconds to find the porter to whom he had
entrusted the matter. This man also clearly recollected the
circumstances and unhesitatingly identified Cosgrove from his
photograph.

‘Just tell me what occurred when you met Mr Ponson, will you?’ asked
Tanner.

‘Well, sir,’ the man answered, ‘I was going along the train with ’is
bag and coat, and ’e comes out of a first-class carriage bare ’eaded,
and when ’e sees the bag ’e says, “that’s my bag, porter,” ’e says,
and ’e gives ’is name. “Shove it in ’ere,” ’e says. ’E ’ad ’is ’at on
the seat for to keep ’is place, and that’s all I knows about it.’

The confirmation seemed so complete that Tanner was tempted to return
to town instead of taking the long journey to Montrose. But before
everything he was thorough. He had paid too dearly in the past for
taking obvious things for granted. In this case every point must be
tested.

Soon, therefore, he was moving slowly out of Grantham on his way
north. He had not been able to get a sleeping berth, but he made
himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of a first-class
compartment, and there he slept almost without moving till the bustle
at Edinburgh aroused him. Here a restaurant car was attached, and
shortly after Tanner moved in and breakfasted.

At Montrose he went to a barber’s and was shaved, then, hiring a car,
he was driven out to the training stables.

Colonel Archdale was an elderly man of a school Tanner had imagined
was extinct—short, red-faced and peppery, and dressed in a check suit
and riding breeches. The Inspector had called at the house, a low,
straggling building of the bungalow type, but had been sent on to find
its master at the stables, half a mile distant.

‘Mornin’,’ the Colonel greeted him, as Tanner handed him his card and
asked for a few moments conversation. ‘Certainly, I’ll go up to the
house with you in a minute.’

‘I shouldn’t, sir, dream of troubling you so far,’ Tanner assured him.
‘Besides, it is not necessary. A minute or two here when you are
disengaged is all I want.’

‘Be gad, sir, you’re modest. Comin’ all the way from London for a
minute or two,’ and calling out some directions to a groom, he led the
way into a kind of small office at the end of the stable.

‘Well, sir,’ he said as he seated himself before a small roll top
desk, and pointed to a chair, ‘and what can I do for you?’

‘I am engaged, sir,’ Tanner answered, ‘in making some confidential
inquiries into the movements of a man, who, I understand, was recently
here—Mr Cosgrove Ponson of London.’

‘He was here’—the Colonel hesitated a moment—‘this day week. And what
the devil has he been doin’?’

‘Nothing, sir, so far as we know. It is the case of another man
altogether, but it is necessary for us to know if Mr Ponson really was
out of London on that day.’

‘Well I’ve told you he was here. Is that evidence enough?’

‘Quite, sir, as far as that goes. But I would like also to know some
details to assure myself if his business here was genuine. What was
his business, if I might ask?’

‘You may ask and I’ll tell you too, be gad. He wanted to see Sir
Jocelyn, that’s a three-year-old I’m goin’ to sell. Devilish good bit
of horseflesh too. But he wouldn’t stretch to my figure. I wanted
seven hundred, and he would only go five fifty. So it was no deal.’

‘He came about this time in the morning, I suppose?’

‘Yes, and a confoundedly silly time it was to come. He was to have
been here at six for the morning exercise, but he missed his train, so
he said, in London.’

‘I understood so from him. Just one question more, sir. When was the
arrangement about his visit made?’

‘Some days before; I think it was on Monday evening I got his wire
asking would Thursday suit me.’

‘This is the man you mean, I presume?’ and Tanner took out Cosgrove’s
photograph.

The colonel nodded as he answered: ‘That’s he.’

‘And there was nothing, sir, in the whole episode that seemed to you
suspicious or otherwise than it appeared on the surface?’

‘Not a thing.’

Tanner rose.

‘Allow me then, sir, to express my thanks for your courtesy. That is
all I want to know.’

Declining an invitation to go up to the house for a drink—‘too
devilish risky to keep it here, be gad’—he returned to Montrose and
looked up the trains to London. There was one at 2.29 which,
travelling by Edinburgh and Carlisle, reached St Pancras at 6.30 the
following morning. This, he decided, would suit him admirably, and
when it came in he got on board.

As he sat a little later gazing out on to the smiling Fifeshire
country, he went over once more, point by point, that portion of
Cosgrove’s alibi which he had already checked. So far as he had gone
it certainly seemed to him very complete. In the first place, not only
was the journey north made with, so far as he could ascertain, a quite
genuine purpose, but the selection of that particular night was
reasonably accounted for. The arrangement for it had been made at
least as early as the previous Monday, which, again, would be a
reasonable time in advance. Tanner could see nothing in any way
suspicious or suggestive of a plant about the whole business.

Then, coming to details, the missing of the train at King’s Cross
might of course have been faked, but there was no evidence to support
such a supposition. On the contrary, everything he had learnt seemed
to prove it genuine. But even if it had been a plant, it was
demonstrated beyond a shadow of doubt that Cosgrove _had_ missed the
7.15 p.m. as he said, and that, further, he _had_ travelled to
Montrose by the 10.30. Even as the case stood Tanner felt bound to
accept the alibi, but if he could confirm Cosgrove’s statement of his
visit to his rooms at 7.45 or 8 o’clock, and to the Follies about
10.00, any last shred of doubt that might remain must be dispelled.
This, he decided, would be his next task.

The following morning, therefore, he returned to Knightsbridge. Here,
keeping his eye on Cosgrove’s door, he strolled about for nearly an
hour before he was rewarded by seeing it open and Cosgrove emerge and
disappear towards Piccadilly. He allowed some ten minutes more to
elapse, then he walked to the door and rang. It was opened by the same
dark, clean-shaven butler who had admitted him before. The man
recognised his visitor, evidently with suspicion.

‘Mr Reginald Willoughby, the Albany?’ he asked with sarcasm, and a
thinly veiled insolence in his tone.

‘That’s all right,’ Tanner answered easily. ‘I know my name is not
Willoughby. It’s Tanner’—he handed over his real card—‘and if you’ll
invite me in for a moment or two I’ll show you my credentials so that
you’ll have no more doubt.’

The butler was evidently impressed, and proffering the suggested
invitation, led the way to a small sitting room.

‘Mr Ponson he phoned the Albany,’ he explained, ‘and they said there
weren’t no one of that name there, so we was wondering about your
little game.’

Tanner, following his usual custom, rapidly sized up his man, and
decided how he should deal with him. With the veneer of his calling
removed the Inspector imagined he might prove a braggart, a bully, and
a coward. He therefore took a strong line.

‘I suppose you know,’ he began, without heeding the other’s remark,
‘that Mr Cosgrove Ponson is under serious suspicion of the murder of
his uncle, Sir William, at Luce Manor?’

It was evident this was the last thing the butler had expected to
hear. He stared at the Inspector in amazement.

‘Lord lumme!’ he stammered, ‘is that a fact?’

‘That’s a fact,’ Tanner went on sharply, ‘and I want some information
from you. And let me advise you to give it to me correctly, for if you
don’t you may find yourself in the Old Bailey charged as an accessory
after the fact.’

The man blenched, and Tanner felt that the estimate he had made of his
character was correct.

‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ he growled sulkily.

‘Oh yes, you do. Mr Ponson told me he spent that Wednesday night here,
or a part of it anyway. Is that true?

Tanner had set his little trap to learn whether the butler had been
primed with a story by Cosgrove. His victim did not answer for a time.
Clearly a struggle was going on in his mind. Then at last he said,
‘Has Mr Cosgrove been arrested?’

The question still further bore out the estimate Tanner had made of
the man’s character. The Inspector could follow the thought which had
prompted it. If the butler was to continue uninterruptedly in his
master’s service, he would rather not have the latter know he had
given him away, but if Cosgrove was already in custody he would keep
on the safe side and tell the truth. Tanner did not assist him to a
conclusion.

‘Never you mind that. You concentrate on avoiding arrest yourself.
Now, will you answer my question?’

After some further urging the statement came. Cosgrove had not spent
the evening in his rooms. He had left about 6.45 to catch the 7.15 at
King’s Cross, but he had returned unexpectedly in about an hour. He
told the butler he had missed his train, and was travelling by a later
one. He had gone out again, almost at once, and the butler had not
seen him for two days.

Tanner asked several searching questions, and ended up completely
satisfied that the man was telling the truth. There was no doubt
whatever that Cosgrove’s story was true in this particular also.

There now remained to be checked only the matter of his visit to the
Follies, and though Tanner was not certain of the necessity for this,
his habit of thoroughness again asserted itself, and he drove to the
theatre. There he learnt that there was no rehearsal that forenoon,
and he went straight on to Chelsea. His ring at the actress’s flat was
answered by a smartly dressed maid, to whom he handed his card, asking
for an interview with her mistress.

The girl disappeared and in a few moments returned.

‘Miss Belcher will see you now, sir.’

He was ushered into a small drawing-room, charmingly furnished in pale
blue, with white enamelled woodwork. The chairs were deep and
luxurious though elegant, the walls panelled with silk and bearing a
few good monochrome drawings, while on the dark polished floor were
thick and, as the Inspector knew, costly rugs. But though everything
in the room was dainty, its outstanding feature was its roses. Roses
were everywhere, massed in great silver bowls and rare old cut-glass
vases.

‘It’s a rose case,’ thought the Inspector whimsically, as he recalled
that in two other sitting rooms he had had to visit—those of Miss Lois
Drew and Cosgrove Ponson—he had found the same decoration, though in
neither case with the same prodigal liberality as here.

He waited for over half an hour and then the door opened and Miss
Belcher appeared.

Seeing her full face in the light from the window, he realised her
beauty as he had not done in the restaurant. Though she was
slightly—Tanner thought comfortable looking, though jealous people
might have used the word stout—her features were so delicately
moulded, her little, pouting mouth so daintily suggestive of dimples,
her light blue eyes so large and appealing, her complexion so creamy,
and above all and crowning all, her hair, so luxuriant and of so
glorious a shade of red gold, that he began to understand the position
she held in the popular favour. She was dressed in a garment which
Tanner imagined was a _négligé_, a flowing robe of light-blue silk
trimmed with the finest lace, beneath which peeped out the tiny toe of
a gilt slipper.

Tanner bowed low.

‘I beg you to pardon this intrusion, madame,’ he said, ‘but my
business is both serious and urgent.’

Without speaking, the actress sank gracefully into a luxurious
arm-chair, indicating with a careless wave of her arm a seat for the
Inspector in front of her. He obeyed her gesture and continued:

‘I have been ordered, madame, to make an investigation into the death
of the late Sir William Ponson of Luce Manor, not far from Luton. I
understand that you are acquainted with his nephew, Mr Cosgrove
Ponson?’ His hostess nodded, still without speaking. Tanner thought
her manner unnecessarily ungracious, and determined to give a hint of
the iron which lurked beneath his velvet exterior.

‘I deeply regret to have to inform you that there is reason to believe
Sir William was murdered, and that grave suspicion rests on Mr
Cosgrove.’

This time the mask of indifference was pierced.

‘But how perfectly outrageous,’ the lady cried, a flicker of anger
passing over her expressive face, ‘and stupid and cruel as well. How
dare you come here and tell me such a thing?’

‘Because I think you may help me to clear him. Please consider the
facts. The medical evidence shows Sir William was murdered some time
after 8.30 on the evening of Wednesday week. We know that Mr Cosgrove
Ponson was financially in low water—in fact, was in debt for a very
large sum, and under threat of exposure and ruin unless he paid up. We
know also he benefited to a considerable extent under Sir William’s
will. Further, in the boathouse from which Sir William’s body was set
adrift, a cigarette end was found—one of a peculiar brand, but little
smoked in England, but which Mr Ponson continually uses, and lastly,
and this is what brings me to you today, Mr Ponson has been unable to
account satisfactorily for his time on the evening in question. He
says he was with you from 8.30 till 9.00, and what I want to ask you
is, Can we get proof of that? I think you will appreciate that proof
of that means proof of his innocence.’

Tanner had been unobtrusively watching his companion while he spoke,
and her demeanour interested him keenly. While he was recounting the
medical evidence and Cosgrove’s financial position she had listened
perfunctorily, as if bored by such trifles being brought to her
notice. But when he mentioned the cigarette she started and a look
first of fear and then of anger showed momentarily in her eyes. It
seemed to Tanner she might have so acted if she knew Cosgrove was
guilty—as if she was aware of and prepared for all he had to say
except this about the cigarette, and that her anger was against
Cosgrove for having smoked under such circumstances. She did not speak
for some moments, and Tanner felt instinctively she had seen his
little trap, and was considering a way out. At last she appeared to
come to a conclusion, and replied in a quiet voice:

‘What Mr Ponson has told you is quite true, or at least almost. He was
at my room at the Follies for about half an hour that evening, but not
quite at the hour you have mentioned. He came about half-past nine,
and left at ten. I know the time because it is the only period in that
play during which I am off the stage.’

She had avoided his trap anyway, and her answer confirmed Cosgrove’s
story. But Tanner recognised he was dealing with a very clever woman,
and he was by no means so convinced of the truth of her statement as
he was of that of the butler. He went on:

‘Obviously, madame, if we have to go before a jury the more
corroborative evidence we can get the better. Now, are there any other
persons who might have seen Mr Ponson at the theatre, and who could be
called to add their testimonies?’

‘I don’t know if anyone else actually saw Mr Ponson,’ she answered,
‘but I should think it likely. Probably the door-keeper did, or one of
the other men. Have you made inquiries?’

‘No, madame. Not yet.’

‘Well, you had better do so,’ and she got up to indicate that the
interview was at an end.

Tanner found himself in the street with a baffled feeling of having
handled the interview badly. But it was at least obvious that the
lady’s advice was good, and somewhat ruefully he drove back to the
Follies.

Here he made exhaustive inquiries, but without any very satisfactory
result. The stage door-keeper knew Cosgrove, and said he was a
frequent visitor to Miss Belcher. He remembered he had come two or
three evenings in the week in question at about 9.30, and stayed with
the actress for about half an hour. But he could not be sure whether
or not Wednesday was one of these evenings. Three or four other
attendants had also seen him, but in no case had there been anything
to attract their attention to him, and none of them could say on what
nights he had been there. But Tanner had to admit to himself that he
could hardly expect such information from persons who were not
interested in Cosgrove’s visit.

But on another point he got positive information. His inquiries
established the fact that on the Wednesday night of the murder Miss
Belcher had been on the stage at 9.15. She therefore could not have
been masquerading as Mrs Franklyn’s servant at the Old Ferry.

On the whole the Inspector felt that, in spite of his momentary
suspicion of Miss Belcher’s manner, he must fully accept the alibi.
The evidence of Cosgrove’s missing the 7.15 p.m. train, and travelling
by the 10.30 was overwhelming. The butler’s corroboration of his
master’s return to Knightsbridge was convincing. Though Tanner was not
so sure of Miss Belcher’s statement, it at least agreed with
Cosgrove’s. Further, the lady had not fallen into Tanner’s little trap
about the hour of the call and had disagreed with what he told her
Cosgrove had said.

Then another point struck him. Cosgrove was at Knightsbridge between
7.45 and 8.00, and at King’s Cross at 10.30. Was this evidence alone
not sufficient? Would it have been possible for him to have visited
Luce Manor in the interval? Suppose he had used a fast motor and gone
by road?

Tanner did not think it could have been done. From London to Halford
was thirty-five miles, and there and back made seventy. What speed
could he reckon on? Considering how much of London would have to be
traversed, and the amount of traffic to be expected on so important a
road, Tanner felt sure not more than an average of thirty miles an
hour at the outside. This would take two hours and twenty minutes at
least, leaving from ten to twenty minutes. The motor never would have
risked going up to Luce Manor, as it would have been heard—in fact, no
motor did so. That meant that ten minutes must have been spent in
going from the road to the boathouse, and another ten in returning.
This even if it could be done at all, would leave no time in which to
commit the murder, get out the boat and set the body and the oars
adrift. Tanner considered it carefully, and at last came to the
conclusion the thing would be utterly impossible. Indeed, he did not
believe that an average of thirty miles an hour could be maintained.
No, the alibi was complete. He felt he must unhesitatingly accept it.

Inspector Tanner was a depressed man as he walked slowly back to New
Scotland Yard. Up to the present he saw that he had been on the wrong
track—that all his time and trouble had been lost. He was now as far
off solving the mystery, as when he started the inquiry, indeed
further, for the real scent must now be cooler.

And Sergeant Longwell had been almost equally unsuccessful in his
endeavour to trace the man who had made the fifth line of footprints
on the river bank. With occasional assistance from Tanner the sergeant
had made exhaustive inquiries in all the surrounding country, but
without result. The only thing he had learnt which might have had a
bearing on the matter was that a small, elderly man with a white
goatee beard had taken the 5.47 a.m. train from St Albans to London,
on the morning of the discovery of the crime. From Halford to St
Albans was about fifteen miles, and Longwell’s theory was that this
man—if he were the suspect—had walked during the night to St Albans,
thinking that at a large station a considerable distance from Luce
Manor he would be more likely to escape observation. But there was no
real reason to connect this early traveller with the visitor to the
boathouse. His boots had not been observed. But even if it had been
proved that he was indeed the wanted man, the detectives were no
further on. For the traveller had vanished into thin air at St Albans,
and no trace of him could be found either in London or anywhere else.

That day a note was received at the Yard from the Chief Constable at
Halford, urging that, unless there was some strong reason for its
further adjournment, the inquest should be completed. The delay, it
was pointed out, was objectionable for several reasons, as well as
being needlessly trying to the family. Rather bitterly Tanner wired
his consent to the proposal, and later in the afternoon there was a
message that the adjourned inquiry would take place at 12.00 noon next
day, Saturday.



CHAPTER VIII.

Tanner Finds Himself Duped

Twelve o’clock next day saw almost the same company assembled at the
adjourned inquest in the long narrow room at Luce Manor, as had sat
there on the morning following the discovery of the tragedy. But on
this occasion a few additional persons were present. Some members of
the outside public had gained admission on one pretext or another,
while, as Tanner noted, both Austin and Cosgrove Ponson were now
legally represented.

The proceedings were formal and uninteresting until the doctors were
called, but the medical evidence produced a veritable sensation. In
the face of it only one verdict was possible, and without leaving
their seats the jury returned that of wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown.

Both Austin and Cosgrove were evidently anxious and upset, and both
showed relief when the proceedings were over. But, considering his
interviews with them, and the inquiries he had made, Tanner did not
think these emotions unnatural or suspicious.

Though the Inspector had hardly hoped to learn additional facts at the
inquest, he was yet disappointed to find that not one single item of
information had come out of which he was not already aware. Nor had
any promising line of inquiry been suggested.

He was now of the opinion that the real clue to the tragedy must lie
in the letter Sir William had received a week before his death, but as
he could see no way of learning its contents, his thoughts had passed
on to the deceased’s visits to London. About these visits one or two
points were rather intriguing.

Firstly, they had occurred almost immediately after the receipt of the
letter, and it was at least possible that they were a result of it.
Secondly, Sir William had travelled to town two days running, or at
least two weekdays running. This was not in accordance with his habit
and pointed to some special and unusual business. The third point
Tanner thought most suggestive of all. Though it was Sir William’s
custom and preference to go to town by car, and his motor was
available on these two occasions, yet he had travelled in each case by
train. Why? Surely, thought Tanner, to enable him to make his calls in
private—to avoid letting the chauffeur know where he went.

At all events, whether or not these conclusions were sound, Tanner
decided the most promising clue left him was the following up of Sir
William’s movements in the city on these two days.

Accordingly, when the business of the inquest was over and he was once
more free, he returned to the railway station at Halford. Here he was
able after careful inquiries to confirm the statement made by Innes,
the valet, as to the trains Sir William had travelled by on the two
days. He went himself to town by the 4.32, determined that on Monday
morning he would try to pick up the trail at St Pancras.

But before Monday morning his thoughts were running in an entirely
different channel.

He had gone home on Sunday determined to enjoy a holiday. But Fate
ruled otherwise. The grilling afternoon had hardly drawn to a close
when a note was sent him from the Yard. It read:

  ‘_Re_ Ponson Case.—Halford sergeant phones important information
  come to hand. You are wanted to return immediately.’

Tanner caught the 7.30 train, and before nine was seated in the
Halford Police Station, hearing the news. The sergeant was bubbling
over with importance and excitement, and told his story with an air of
thrilled impressiveness which considerably irritated his hearer.

‘About four o’clock this afternoon a young woman came to the station
and asked for me,’ he began. ‘She was a good-looking girl of about
five-and-twenty. She gave her name as Lucy Penrose, and said she was
typist and bookkeeper in Smithson’s, the grocer’s in Abbey Street. I
didn’t know her, and she explained that she lived three miles out in
the country, and had only got this job since the beginning of the
month. Then she said she had just read about the inquest in the
evening paper, and that she knew something she thought she ought to
tell.’

The sergeant paused, evidently delighted with the attention the London
officer was giving him.

‘She said,’ he went on after a moment, ‘that about half-past nine on
the Wednesday evening of the murder, she and a young man called
Herbert Potts were walking in the spinney belonging to Dr Graham, on
the left bank of the river, and just opposite the Luce Manor
boathouse. They saw a boat coming down the river with a man in it. He
stopped at the boathouse, and seemed to try the water gate, but
apparently couldn’t get in, for after a moment he pulled on to the
steps and went ashore, making the boat fast. In a couple of minutes he
came back with another man and got in the boat again, and then went in
through the water gate. The other man stood on the steps and watched
him, and then he went round seemingly to the door of the boathouse.
That was all they saw, but, sir, they knew the men.’

Again the sergeant paused to heighten his effect.

‘Get on, man. Don’t be so darned dramatic,’ growled Tanner irritably.
‘Who were they?’

‘Mr Austin Ponson and Sir William!’ The sergeant reached his climax
with an air of triumph.

Tanner was genuinely surprised.

‘Couldn’t have been,’ he said after a moment. ‘I went into all that.
Mr Austin was half-way to the Abbey ruins at that time.’

‘She was quite certain, and she said the man Potts was certain too.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No, sir. He is a bookseller’s assistant in London—to Evans & Hope, in
Paternoster Row. His people live here, and he was down on a couple of
days’ holidays.’

Tanner noted the address.

‘How was Mr Austin supposed to be dressed?’

‘In bluish grey clothes that looked like flannel, and a white straw
hat.’

‘And Sir William?’

‘In a black cape and felt hat.’

‘They didn’t see either of them leave the boathouse?’

‘No, sir. They were passing on down the river towards the girl’s
home.’

Tanner was silent. If this news were true, though he could hardly
credit it, the alibi must be a fake after all, and Austin must have
duped him. And yet, how could it be a fake? He had tested it
thoroughly, and he had been satisfied about it. He did not know what
to think.

‘Why did this girl not come forward before?’ he asked.

‘She didn’t know till she read the account of the inquest that there
was any question of foul play.’

Inspector Tanner was considerably perplexed. The more he thought over
what he had just heard, the more disposed to believe it he became, and
at the same time more puzzled about the alibi. But one fact at all
events appeared to stand out clearly. If Austin had really been to the
boathouse that night, it surely followed that he must be guilty of the
murder? His presence there would not of course prove it, but would not
the alibi? If he had merely omitted to mention the visit it would have
been suggestive, but if he had invented an elaborate story to prove he
was not there, it undoubtedly pointed to something serious.

But, as had always happened up to the present, his own next step was
clear. He must see the girl and hear her statement himself, and
afterwards visit Potts, the bookseller’s assistant. If he was
satisfied with their story he must once again tackle Austin’s alibi
and not drop it till he either found the flaw or was so convinced of
its soundness as to conclude the new witnesses were lying.

Next morning he was early at the grocery establishment of Mr Thomas
Smithson, in close conversation with a tall and rather pretty girl in
a cream-coloured blouse and blue skirt. She repeated the sergeant’s
statement almost word for word, and all Tanner’s efforts could neither
shake her evidence nor add to it. She was quite sure the man in the
boat was Austin; she had seen him scores of times; he was a well-known
Halford figure. So was Sir William; she had seen him scores of times
also. No, it was not too dark to see at that distance; her sight was
excellent, and she was quite certain she had made no mistake.

She was very shamefaced about the cause of her presence on the river
bank, and begged Tanner to respect her confidence. He promised
readily, saying that unless absolutely unavoidable, her name would not
be brought forward.

He returned to town by the next train, and drove to Paternoster Row.
Here he had no difficulty in finding Herbert Potts. He was a man on
the right side of thirty, with a dependable face, and a quiet, rather
forceful manner. He seemed considerably annoyed that his excursion
with Miss Penrose should have become known, fearing, as he said, that
the girl would get talked about, and perhaps have to give evidence in
court. But about the events on the night in question he corroborated
her entirely. He also was positive the man in the boat was Austin.
Though now employed in London, he was a Halford man and knew Austin’s
appearance beyond possibility of mistake. The Inspector left him,
feeling that in the face of these two witnesses he could no longer
doubt Austin had been at the boathouse, and therefore had faked his
alibi.

But how? That was the question he must now set himself to solve.

It seemed clear that Austin’s statement up to the time of his leaving
the boat club pavilion, and after his arrival back there, was true.
The testimony of the boatman Brocklehurst, Miss Drew, and Austin’s
butler was overwhelming. The flaw therefore must lie in the evidence
of what took place between those hours. Tanner went over this once
again.

It hinged, as he had recognised before, on the shoes. And firstly, had
the prints at the Abbey been made by those shoes? He had thought so at
the time, and on reconsidering the matter he felt more certain than
ever that he was right. A very trifling dint in the edge of one of the
soles, evidently caused by striking a sharp-edged stone, was
reproduced exactly in the clay. It was unthinkable that another pair
of precisely similar shoes should have a precisely similar dint in the
exact same place. No, when or by whom worn, Austin’s shoes had made
the tracks. So much was beyond question.

Then with regard to the time at which the prints had been made. On
this point the evidence of the butler corroborated Austin’s story. The
butler had stated the shoes had been in Austin’s dressing-room in his,
the butler’s, charge during the entire time from the Monday on which
they were purchased till the Friday, with the single exception of this
particular period on Wednesday evening. If this were true it followed
that some person other than Austin wore the shoes, and made the tracks
during this period. But was it true?

Tanner recalled point by point his interview with the butler.
Invariably he reached his conclusions quite as much from the manner
and bearing of the persons he interrogated as from their statement.
And in this case he was forced to admit the butler seemed to speak as
a perfectly honest man. The Inspector felt he did not possess
sufficient intelligence to make his story sound as convincing as it
had, unless he himself believed it to be true.

But might not the man have been mistaken?

Obviously the liability of humanity to err must be kept in view. At
the same time it was difficult to see how a mistake could have
occurred. The matter was not one of opinion, but of fact. Was Austin
wearing the shoes when he went out and returned on the Wednesday
evening? Were they clean before he started and muddy after he reached
home? There did not seem to be any possibility of error on these
points. More important still, were they worn at any other time? The
butler had stated he always knew what shoes Austin was wearing, as all
his master’s footwear was in his charge. It seemed to Tanner that if
Austin was away from the house for so long as a journey to the Abbey
would involve, in dirty weather, the butler would expect a pair of
shoes to have been soiled, and would therefore be bound to know if
those in question had been worn.

But there was corroborative evidence which vastly strengthened the
man’s statement, and that was the apparent age of the footmarks.
Tanner could not tell to an hour when prints were made, but he felt
certain he could say to within twelve. And in the case of these
particular marks at the Abbey their appearance told him unmistakably
they must have been made on or about Wednesday night. That the shoes
came in wet and muddy that night, and that on Thursday morning they
had dried by just the amount that might reasonably have been expected,
was also strongly corroborative.

The more Tanner pondered over the matter, the more he felt himself
forced once more to the conclusion that the footprints at the Abbey
were made on that Wednesday evening between the hours of nine and
eleven. If Austin was now proved to have been at the boathouse between
these hours, who then had made them?

And again, if so, what shoes had Austin worn at Luce Manor? On that
night the butler had gone over all his footwear, and all except the
shoes in question were there in Austin’s room.

Tanner was genuinely puzzled. This whole matter of the shoes seemed so
clear and straightforward, and yet, if Potts and Miss Penrose were to
be believed, it was all a fake. As he sat smoking after lunch in the
corner of a quiet restaurant he kept racking his brains to find the
flaw. But he could get no light, and he did not see just where to look
for it.

At last he decided he would try to trace Austin’s movements, from the
time of his visit to Luce Manor on the Sunday evening previous to the
murder, right up to the time he handed over the shoes to him, Tanner,
on the following Friday. If Austin had arranged for a confederate to
make the tracks for him he must have had communications with him, and
it was possible Tanner might thus learn his identity.

As he was in London, the Inspector thought he might as well begin with
Austin’s visit to town on the Monday previous to the murder. Of that,
the only thing of which he knew was the purchase of the shoes. He had
noted the maker’s markings, ‘Glimax B 10735 / 789647S Hunt & Co.’

Messrs Hunt’s was a very large firm, with perhaps a score or more of
shops in the metropolis, and probably hundreds throughout the three
kingdoms. ‘Glimax’ was one of the three or four ‘lines’ advertised in
every paper. Tanner borrowed a directory and looked up their head
office. Half an hour later he was seated with their manager.

Having introduced himself as an Inspector from Scotland Yard, he went
on to business at once.

‘I am endeavouring,’ he said, ‘to trace the movements of a man who, on
Monday, the 5th, this day fortnight, purchased a pair of shoes from
one of your shops—probably a West End branch. The shoes were marked
Glimax B 10735 over 789647S. Now, can you oblige me by suggesting how
I might obtain a record of the sale?’

‘With the best will in the world, I don’t know that we can give you
that information,’ the manager returned slowly. ‘We get weekly
statements from all our branches which show the total sales of each
class of shoe during the period. But, unfortunately for you, though
fortunately for us,’ the manager smiled deprecatingly, ‘many shoes of
the fitting in question would almost certainly be sold at each of our
branches during each week. If, therefore, you were to go through our
returns you would find yourself no further on—it would still mean
inquiries at each individual branch. How do you propose to identify
your man?’

‘I have his photograph.’

‘I am afraid you will have to depend on that. Some of the salesmen
will probably remember him. Can I help you in any other way?’

‘Two things, if you will be so good; to give me, first, a list of your
West End branches and second, a note to your managers, asking them to
assist me.’

‘I will do both with pleasure.’

Ten minutes later Tanner reached the first branch. Here he saw the
manager, presented his note, and explained his business. The official
was extremely civil and brought the Inspector to each of the salesmen
in turn. All gave him their careful attention, but none could recall
Austin Ponson nor recollect the sale in question. With courteous
thanks Tanner took his leave.

The second branch was not far away, and here the Inspector made
similar inquiries. But here again without result.

Recognising that his quest was going to be tedious, he engaged a taxi
and settled down to work systematically through the list. Progress was
slow, and it was approaching six o’clock by the time he had reached
the ninth branch. But here, just as he had decided he would visit no
more that evening, he had some luck.

In this shop, the second salesman he spoke to instantly recognised
Austin’s photograph, and recollected the purchase of the shoes.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I remember the man perfectly. What drew my special
attention to him was the very peculiar way he conducted the purchase.
He came in and said he wanted a pair of Glimax B10735 over 789647S. He
did not look at the shoes I brought him, except to check the number. I
remarked that few gentlemen knew what they wanted so precisely as
that, and he said he had had a pair of the same before which had
suited him, and he simply wanted to replace them.’

‘About what time was that?’

‘Shortly after four, I should say.’

‘And did he give his name?’

‘Yes. I forget what it was, but I sent the shoes to the parcels office
at St Pancras.’

In reply to a further question the man said he recalled the names of
Ponson and Halford.

The Inspector was considerably puzzled by what he had heard, and that
evening he lit a cigar and settled down to consider it. In the first
place, Austin’s statement that he had bought the shoes on that Monday
was true. But how did he know their number? The butler, Tanner
remembered, had said that his master had never had a similar pair. For
a long time he pondered over the problem, but the only thing that
seemed to him clear was that some trick had been played. But at last a
possible solution occurred to him. What if there were two of them in
it—Austin and an accomplice? The accomplice buys a pair of shoes and
sends Austin the number so that he may get a precisely similar pair.
Then on the Wednesday night while Austin, wearing one pair, is at Luce
Manor, the confederate, wearing the other, is making the tracks at the
Abbey.

At first this seemed to Tanner to account for the facts, but then he
recollected that the dent on the sole of one shoe proved that the pair
which made the tracks at the Abbey was Austin’s pair—the pair which
had been in the butler’s charge till he, Tanner, received it. Unless,
therefore, Austin and his accomplice had exchanged shoes at the end of
the excursion, this theory would not work.

Suddenly another idea came into the Inspector’s mind, at which he
slapped his thigh, and smiled to himself. ‘Guess I’m on to it this
time,’ he muttered, as he went up to bed, well pleased with his day’s
work.

To test the soundness of his new supposition, he continued next
morning the inquiry he had been making on the previous
afternoon—interrogating the shoe shop salesmen for information as to
Austin’s purchases. He began with the tenth branch, as if he had
discovered nothing at the ninth. But here his efforts met with no
success. Nor did they at the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth. But at
the fourteenth, with a feeling of pleased triumph, he discovered what
he had hoped to find.

At this shop he inquired, as before, if any of the assistants
recollected a man like that of the photo he showed having purchased a
pair of shoes of the given number. At once he had an affirmative
response. One salesman remembered Austin having called on the Monday
in question, and after having been carefully fitted, having bought the
shoes. The salesman had according to his usual custom handed Austin a
card bearing the number of the shoes. He had offered to send the
parcel, but Austin had said he was running for a train and would take
it with him. The transaction had occurred about three o’clock.

‘Bully for me!’ thought Tanner as he drove to St Pancras, _en route_
for Halford. ‘See what a little imagination does!’

The theory he had evolved on the previous night now seemed not
unlikely to be the truth. According to it, Austin had gone to town on
the Monday and purchased two identical pairs of shoes. The first he
had had fitted in the usual way in one shop; the second had been
selected in another shop as being of the same number as the first.
This had been rendered possible by carrying out the purchases in two
different branch shops of the same firm. One pair he had bought openly
giving his name and having the parcel sent to St Pancras; the other
transaction he intended to remain a secret.

Arrived at his home, Austin had carried out the same tactics. One pair
he had spoken of and given into his butler’s charge; the other he had
locked away privately. No one was supposed to know, and no one did
know, that he had purchased more than one pair.

Let us call these two the known pair and the secret pair. On the
evening of the murder, then, Austin puts on the known pair which the
butler had in his charge, goes to Luce Manor, commits the murder,
walks home through some muddy ground, gets the shoes wet, changes them
on returning home, where they dry during the night and are cleaned by
the butler next day, all exactly as the latter had stated. But at some
other time, probably in the dead of Wednesday night, Austin gets up,
puts on the other pair—the secret pair—and slipping out of his house
unnoticed, makes the tracks at the Abbey. To make the deception more
convincing he has previously dinted the sole of one of these ‘secret’
shoes, so that this dint will show on the prints at the Abbey. At some
convenient opportunity when the butler is out of the way he himself
cleans the secret pair, and then _changes them for the others_. The
dinted pair which made the tracks at the Abbey thus become those in
the butler’s charge; the others, in which the murder was committed,
are locked away by Austin, who doubtless takes an early opportunity of
destroying them.

Tanner had to admit the ingenuity of the plan. To anyone not knowing
there were two pairs of shoes in question, the alibi would be
overwhelming.

But completely to prove this theory it would be necessary to show that
Austin was at the Abbey at some time other than that he had stated. It
was with this object Tanner was returning to Halford.

He made most persistent inquiries, but was unable to find any evidence
on this point. None of the cottagers nor farm hands in the vicinity of
the Abbey had seen Austin, either on the Wednesday evening or at any
other time. Nor had any other stranger been observed. If, however,
Austin had been to the Abbey in the middle of the night, as Tanner
suspected, the failure to see him was not surprising, and did not
invalidate the main conclusion. On the contrary, Tanner believed he
had solved his problem. Austin, he felt, was guilty beyond a shadow of
doubt.

And then Tanner saw that this solution cleared up another point by
which he had been somewhat puzzled, namely, Austin’s readiness, indeed
almost eagerness, to tell of his visit to the Abbey. That, he now saw,
had been a trap, and he, Tanner, had walked right into it. He saw
Austin’s motive now. From the latter’s point of view it was necessary
that Tanner should inspect the footprints while they were still fresh.
If some days passed before suspicion was aroused, the marks would have
become obliterated, and the alibi worthless. Austin was a cleverer man
than the Inspector had given him credit for. By his manner he had
deliberately roused the latter’s suspicions so that his alibi might be
established while the footprints were clear.

That evening Tanner made careful notes of the evidence he had
accumulated against Austin Ponson. When the document was completed, it
read:

 1. Austin never got on with Sir William. 2. Though Sir William
 allowed him £1000 a year, this was a small sum compared to what he
 might equally easily have paid. 3. Austin could not be making more
 than two or three hundred a year, so his total income could not much
 exceed £1200. 4. He was living up to, or almost up to, this figure.
 5. Austin had become engaged to a girl to whom, as a daughter-in-law,
 there was every reason to believe Sir William objected. This girl had
 no dot. 6. Unless he got an increased allowance Austin would find
 himself very pinched after marriage. 7. Sir William had threatened
 that if the marriage came off, he would not only not increase the
 allowance, but might alter his will adversely to Austin. 8. Austin
 would therefore be faced with the alternative of having his prospects
 ruined if his father lived, or, if he died, of receiving £150,000.
 Thus not only his own position and comfort were at stake, but that
 also of the girl he loved—a terrible temptation. 9. Austin had an
 interview with Sir William on the Sunday night previous to the
 murder, at which the two quarrelled about a lady—presumably Miss
 Drew. 10. Austin had the requisite knowledge of Luce Manor and Sir
 William’s ways to have accomplished the deed. 11. Austin had on that
 Wednesday night rowed down the river and met Sir William at the Luce
 Manor boathouse. 12. Austin had denied having been in the
 neighbourhood at the time. 13. Austin had invented and carried out an
 elaborate plant with the object of proving an alibi. This alibi was a
 deliberate falsehood from beginning to end, and was prearranged.

As Tanner read over his document he felt that seldom had he
investigated a clearer case, or got together more utterly damning
evidence.

‘The man’s as good as hanged,’ he said grimly to himself.

Next morning he laid his conclusions before his chief, with the result
that an hour later he was again on his way to Halford, armed with a
warrant for Austin Ponson’s arrest.

He took the sergeant and a constable with him to the house, but left
them waiting in the hall while he was shown into Austin’s study. The
latter was writing at his table.

‘Hallo! Inspector,’ he cried cheerily. ‘And how are you getting on?’

Tanner ignored his outstretched hand, and as the other saw his
visitor’s face, his expression changed.

‘Mr Austin Ponson, I am sorry to inform you I hold a warrant for your
arrest on a charge of murdering your father, Sir William Ponson. I
must also warn you that anything you may say may be used against you.’

Austin shrank back and collapsed into his chair as if he had been
struck. His face grew ghastly, and little drops of moisture formed on
his forehead. For some moments he sat motionless, then slowly he
seemed somewhat to recover himself.

‘All I can say, Inspector,’ he answered earnestly, ‘is that, before
God, I am innocent. I am ready to go with you.’

The news spread like wildfire, and that evening the people of Halford
had a fresh thrill and a new subject of conversation.



CHAPTER IX.

Lois Drew Takes a Hand

Just about the time that the arrest of Austin Ponson was taking place,
Miss Lois Drew entered her drawing-room, and sitting down at the old
Sheraton desk near the window, became immersed in her household
accounts.

The low ceilinged, green-tinted room was pleasantly cool on this hot,
dusty morning. The bow window faced west, and so was shaded from the
glare of the sun. The casements stood invitingly open to the warm,
scent-laden air, which streamed gently in over the fragrant masses of
colour in the flower beds without. The faint hum of honey-seeking
insects fell soothingly and companionably on the ear. Now and then a
sudden crescendo marked the swift passage of a bee, busily intent on
its own affairs, while butterflies flitted aimlessly by with erratic,
dancing movements. Beyond the garden a meadow stretched down to the
river, in which cattle, immersed to the knees, stood motionless,
enjoying the cool of the water. The surface of the reach was still and
unruffled, and reflected as in a mirror the tree-covered slopes of the
opposite bank. Restful and pleasant was the prospect without, and
within, the whole atmosphere of the room breathed an equal contentment
and peace.

And no less pleasant and restful to the eye was the figure of the girl
at the desk. Though hardly anyone would have called her beautiful, she
had what was of much greater importance—that elusive indefinable
quality called charm. There was charm in her graceful movements, in
the steady glance of her dark, lustrous eyes, in the ready smile which
lit up her expressive face, and in the low, mellow tones of her
musical voice. She bent over her task, working rapidly, carrying out
the business of the moment as she did everything she undertook,
quietly, unobtrusively, and efficiently.

She had lived what most girls of her age would have called a dull and
pleasureless life. Her mother, who had been the brains and the manager
of the household, had died when she was fifteen, leaving the care of
her kindly, idealistic, impractical father and her pretty,
inconsequent younger sister on her hands. Almost unconsciously she had
shouldered the burden, but a very real burden she soon found it.
Though they lived comfortably, even well, they were far from being
well off; indeed, before long the chronic strain of making ends meet
became to her a veritable nightmare. But she carried on bravely with a
smiling face, entirely forgetful of her own pleasure. If only her
father could be spared worry, and her sister have as good an education
and as much amusement as could be extracted from their circumstances.
But if the strain had made her self-reliant and dependable, it had
also somewhat aged her and given her a seriousness beyond her years.
She had, however, her reward in the way her father, now a rapidly
ageing man, idolised and leant on her, and in the exuberant affection
of her sister.

She had on this bright summer morning just completed her accounts,
having with characteristic thoroughness at last run to earth a
fugitive fivepence which for a considerable time had avoided capture.
She was putting away her books when the elderly general servant
brought in a note. It was addressed in Austin Ponson’s square,
masculine hand. With a sudden irrational feeling of foreboding she
waited till the woman had left the room, then tore it open, and with a
clutching at the heart read:

                                                            21st July.

  ‘Dear Lois: I am writing this by the courtesy of Inspector Tanner of
  Scotland Yard, though he has warned me he will have to read it
  before sending it on. He tells me that some evidence has been
  received which throws suspicion of my father’s murder on me, and
  that he is bound to arrest me. I do not yet know the details. This
  is just to say, dearest, that of course I see that under the
  circumstances there can be no question of an engagement between us.
  I will live in hope that if this trouble passes over, you will
  perhaps allow me once again to plead my cause, but if this should be
  good-bye, I can only say I am innocent of this awful charge, and beg
  you to think as kindly of me as you can.

                                              ‘Always yours devotedly,
                                                      ‘Austin Ponson.’

For several minutes Lois Drew sat motionless, her white face hard and
set, her horror-stricken eyes fastened on the fateful words. So the
blow had fallen at last—the terrible blow that ever since the
Inspector’s visit she had feared day and night. Since the tragedy it
had been as if some Dread Shade lurked, for the moment indeed in the
background, but ready at any minute to step forward and intrude its
baleful presence into Austin’s life and hers. For never for a moment
had it occurred to her to break off the engagement, and now, though
Austin had written of its cancellation as an obvious and indeed an
accomplished fact, she never really allowed her mind to harbour the
idea. Had she not promised to marry him? Very well, that was enough.
If he had wanted her when all things were well, would he not want her
tenfold now when trouble had come? But though she did not seriously
consider his proposal, subconsciously she was pleased that he had made
it so promptly. And she did not resent the cold tone of his note. She
realised his feelings were sacred to him. Neither he nor she could
have them weighed and sifted by an Inspector of police.

As she sat, motionless in body and almost numb in mind, waiting
unconsciously till the first rude shock should have somewhat passed
over, she tried to consider the matter dispassionately. She knew that
many persons arrested on suspicion were afterwards set at liberty, the
charge against them breaking down on further investigation, and that
of those actually brought to trial, a respectable percentage were
acquitted. But she also knew that in a case like the present Scotland
Yard would not order an arrest unless there were pretty strong grounds
to go on. And this was particularly so where the accused had been
under suspicion for some time, as she guessed from Tanner’s visit to
herself Austin had been. But she was a good friend. In all her
cogitations never once did the possibility of her lover’s guilt enter
her thoughts. Of his innocence she was as certain as of her own
existence.

As time passed, her mind became clearer, and her practical common
sense reasserted itself. What, she wondered, was she to do? She was so
ignorant of the law, so unversed in its usages, so unaware of its
possibilities. But she felt one thing demanded her immediate care.
That impossible idea of breaking the engagement must be put out of
Austin’s head without further delay. He must not be allowed to think
for one moment that his trouble could make any difference to her. He
must be made to feel she was not leaving him in the lurch.

But how was she to communicate with him?

She did not know whether he would be allowed to receive letters, but
she fancied not. At all events there might be a delay in their
delivery. She thought for a few moments, and then she took a sheet of
paper and wrote as follows:

  ‘Dear Mr Tanner: I have received the letter from Mr Ponson which you
  were good enough to permit him to write and I wish to convey to you
  my grateful thanks for your consideration. In case it should be
  contrary to the rules for him to receive my reply direct, I write to
  ask whether you could possibly see your way to convey to him this
  message—first, that I will not hear of our engagement being broken
  off; on the contrary, I am going to announce it immediately, and
  second, that though I know it is unnecessary to assure him of my
  absolute belief in him and in his innocence, I still wish to do so
  in the strongest manner possible.

  ‘I thought you were exceedingly kind on the day you called here, and
  I am sure that if you can do me this great favour you will.

                                                     ‘Yours sincerely,
                                                          ‘Lois Drew.’

She addressed the envelope to ‘Inspector Tanner, Criminal
Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, London’, marking it
‘Personal’. Then putting on her hat, she walked quickly to the post
office and dropped the letter into the receiver. She thought that many
of the passers-by looked at her curiously, but she was too much
absorbed in her own thoughts to care.

As she turned homewards it suddenly occurred to her that her cousin
Jimmy might help her. Mr James Daunt was junior partner of a London
firm of solicitors, a clever, and she believed, a rising man, and who
would have all the knowledge of the possibilities of the case which
she lacked. Moreover, Jimmy was a decent soul, and a good friend of
her own. They had seen a lot of each other as children, and she felt
he would help her if he could.

She turned into the local telephone office and put through a call. Mr
James Daunt was in his office. If she came to town he could see her at
five o’clock.

She travelled up by the 3.30 train, and at the hour named mounted the
steps of the old house in Lincoln’s Inn. She was soon in her cousin’s
room.

‘Hallo old girl!’ he greeted her when the door had closed. ‘Jolly to
see you. It’s not often you take pity on a lonely old bachelor like
this. Sit down, won’t you?’

She sank back into a deep, leather-lined arm-chair. They talked
commonplaces for a few moments, and then Lois referred to the object
of her call. She found it much harder to begin than she had expected,
but when her cousin understood she was really in trouble he dropped
his somewhat breezy manner and became serious and sympathetic.

‘Have you had tea?’ he asked, interrupting her story.

‘Not yet. I came direct from the station.’

‘Then not a word till you’ve had it,’ he declared. ‘Come out to a
quiet little place I know. We can talk there without interruption.’

Though she had not realised it, Lois was almost fainting for food. She
had not eaten any lunch, and now the hot stimulant and the fresh rolls
and butter did her more good than she could have thought possible. She
smiled across at him.

‘I believe I was dying of hunger,’ she announced.

‘Just like you,’ he retorted, ‘at your old games again. Always
thinking of somebody else, and forgetting your own much more important
self.’

‘Well, you’ve probably saved my life. And now, Jimmy, I do want your
help.’

‘I know, old girl. I don’t need to tell you I’ll do everything I can.
Just start in and let’s have the whole story. You don’t mind if I
smoke?’

‘Of course not. The first thing I have to tell you is—that I have
become engaged to be married.’

‘By Jove, you have!’ cried Jimmy, jumping up and holding out his hand.
‘I hadn’t an inkling there was anything in the wind. Best possible
congratulations, old girl. I think a cousinly salutation—’ they were
alone in an alcove, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘And who’s
the lucky man, if it’s not a secret?’

‘Ah, there’s no luck in it, Jimmy. That’s what I’ve come about. It’s
Austin Ponson.’

‘Austin Ponson? How do you mean no luck? Why, dear girl, I
congratulate you again. I have heard of him, and always that he was a
white man through and through.’

Tears trembled on Lois’s long eyelashes. It took all her strength of
will to speak in her normal tone.

‘Dear Jimmy, you can’t think what it means to me to hear you say that.
You evidently don’t know what has happened. He’s in frightful
trouble.’

Jimmy looked his question.

‘He’s just been arrested on the charge’—Lois’s lip quivered in spite
of herself—‘of murdering his father.’

Her cousin whistled.

‘Good Lord!’ he cried, ‘you don’t say so? Poor old girl.’

‘It’s terrible. Oh, Jimmy, what are we to do?’

‘It’s damnable. But you musn’t be downhearted. Many and many a man has
been arrested for a crime he has known nothing about. Don’t get upset
till we’re sure there is something to be upset about. Tell me the
details.’

She told him all she knew; of Austin’s visit at eleven on the fatal
night, of the hoax that had been played on him, of their learning of
Sir William’s disappearance the next day, of the inquest and its
adjournment, of Tanner’s visit to her, of the adjourned inquest, and
of Austin’s note, and her reply to it. He listened in silence till she
had finished.

‘And you have no idea what this new evidence is?’ he asked at last.

‘None whatever.’

‘Our first step will be to find that out. I think I can do that. Then
if you give me authority to act for you, I’ll see him and hear what he
has to say about it. That would probably be the quickest way to learn
our defence.’

‘Could I see him, Jimmy?’

Her cousin hesitated.

‘I hardly think so,’ he said slowly, ‘at present. Later on if the case
really goes to trial there should be no difficulty. Just for the
immediate present I shouldn’t make a move. You have done enough for
him, writing that letter to the Inspector.’

Lois looked at him searchingly.

‘Don’t try to keep me away from him, Jimmy,’ she pleaded.

‘Of course not. But it would be difficult for you to get an order, and
you better wait till we see how things go on. You probably wouldn’t
get two orders under any circumstances.’

‘If you keep me from him, I’ll never forgive you.’

‘Dear girl, don’t get notions. I wouldn’t attempt it. But we’re hardly
so far on as that yet. There is his family to consider. Have you seen
them?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Just that if they’re going to undertake the defence I don’t quite see
where we come in. But we’ll find that out.’ He paused and then went
on: ‘Now, old girl, you’ve come to me for professional advice and
you’re going to get it. Don’t think I’m trying to keep you away from
Austin Ponson, but my advice to you is, don’t make any announcement of
your engagement for a day or two yet. You will only distract and worry
Ponson, and you won’t do any good. The thing to concentrate on is to
get him out of the hands of the police. He’ll want all his wits to
help with that. He knows you’re not going to drop him, and that will
be enough to comfort him. Take my advice, Lois, and let things alone
for the present.’

‘But how can I see him or do anything for him if the engagement is not
known?’

‘What could you do if it was?’

‘Well, I could at least take my share of arranging for his defence.’

‘Aren’t you doing that now? What more do you think you could do?’

‘But how can you approach the family, acting for me, if it’s not known
that we’re engaged?’

‘Perfectly simply. I’ll see him, explain the facts, and get him to
employ me. That will give me ten times the authority that you could,
and it will leave his mind at rest about you. Believe me, Lois, that’s
the thing to be done.’

‘Oh, Jimmy, if you’ll do that it would make just all the difference.
How good you are!’

‘Rubbish. But remember you’ve got to do your part—to sit tight and say
nothing. I’ll see all these people and arrange matters.’

‘But you’ll let me know how you get on?’

‘Sure. I’ll keep nothing back from you.’

He asked her some more questions, finally seeing her to St Pancras and
putting her into the Halford train.

‘By Jove,’ he soliloquised as he left the station, ‘here’s a mess!
Whatever happens’—he swore great oaths under his breath—‘Lois must be
kept out of it. As decent a girl as lives! That’s the way with these
extra good women—they _will_ throw themselves away on rotters of all
kinds. Heavens, what an idea! To announce an engagement with a man
arrested for murder! And now first of all to nip that madness in the
bud—_if_ possible.’ He hailed a taxi and was driven to Scotland Yard.

‘Is Inspector Tanner in?’ he asked. ‘Private business.’

Tanner, it appeared, was just going home, but had not yet left. He
returned to his room.

‘My name,’ began Jimmy, ‘is Daunt—James Daunt, junior partner of
Willington, Daunt & Daunt, Solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn.’

Tanner bowed.

‘I know your firm, sir,’ he said quietly.

‘I called on behalf of my cousin, Miss Lois Drew, of Halford. You can
no doubt guess my business?’

‘You are going to act for Mr Ponson?’

‘Not quite. At least I am not sure. It is my cousin I am really
interested in. I want to ask your help, Mr Tanner. My cousin, who is a
little—well, fond of her own way, has written you a letter, a
compromising letter, one which should never have been written. You
probably haven’t received it yet, but in it she asks you to inform Mr
Ponson that she holds him to the engagement that they had just fixed
up, and is going to announce it at once. Now, Mr Tanner, you will see
that this is quixotic and absurd, and it musn’t be allowed. I have
succeeded in getting her to promise to say nothing for the present,
and what I want to ask you is to be so good as to respect her
confidence, and keep her name out of it.’

Tanner looked somewhat distressed.

‘I should be only too glad,’ he answered, ‘to do as you say,
especially as I so greatly respected and admired what I saw of Miss
Drew, if only it were possible. But I fear it won’t be. I am afraid
the engagement will be an integral part of the Crown case. But I may
say that I shall not use Miss Drew’s letter. Both she herself and Mr
Ponson told me of the engagement.’

‘You don’t say so? And have you mentioned it to anyone else?’

‘Only to my chief.’

‘Well, you know the case against Mr Ponson, and I don’t. I can only
ask that you don’t make the fact public until it is absolutely
necessary.’

‘That I will promise you with pleasure.’

‘I am very grateful. And now there is another thing,’ and Jimmy
explained that he wanted to see Austin, and for what reason.

‘I shall certainly raise no objection,’ Tanner answered, ‘but I’m
afraid your application will have to go through the usual channel.’

‘Of course. When is he to be brought before the magistrate?’

‘Tomorrow at eleven.’

Two hours later the door of Austin’s cell opened to admit the junior
partner of Messrs Willington, Daunt & Daunt. Austin was sitting with
his head on his hands and an expression of deep gloom on his face, but
he rose with a look of inquiry as Jimmy entered.

‘Mr Ponson?’ said the latter as he introduced himself. ‘I come on
rather delicate business. It is on behalf of my cousin, Miss Lois
Drew,’ and he told of the interview which he had just had. Austin was
much moved.

‘God bless her!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘Isn’t it unbelievable, even for
her! But it must be stopped, Mr Daunt, at all costs it must be
stopped. Her name must be kept out of it no matter what happens.’

Jimmy did not repeat what Tanner had told him.

‘I’m glad you agree, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘Now another point. May I
ask who is acting for you in this matter?’

Austin passed his hand, wearily over his forehead.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t arranged anything yet. You see, I only arrived
here a few hours ago.’

‘But who is your usual man of business?’

‘Any little thing I have wanted done up to the present I have taken to
Mr Hopkins, of Halford, and he was present at the adjourned inquest on
my behalf. He is as straight as a die, but he is elderly, and I dare
say out of date. I’m afraid he wouldn’t be much use at this kind of
thing. Wills and deeds are more in his line. I wonder, Mr Daunt, if I
asked you to take it on would it draw attention to Lois?’

‘It’s rather a delicate matter as it looks like cadging for business,
but for Lois’s sake I should be glad to act for you. As for dragging
in her name, I don’t think half a dozen people in the world know we
are cousins, and at Halford probably no one. Besides, you would not
employ me, but the firm.’

‘Then I do employ your firm—if you will be good enough to act. What is
the first step?’

‘The first legal step is to be present in court on your behalf
tomorrow. Then I shall get hold of the case against you, after which
we will put our heads together over your defence. But there is also
your own family to consider. Have you any near relatives other than
your mother, sister, and cousin?’

‘None.’

‘I presume you would like me to take them into our confidence?’

Austin agreed and they discussed the matter further, arranging terms
and other details.

‘Now, Mr Ponson,’ said Jimmy when these were settled, ‘I have to give
you a very solemn warning. Your very life may depend on how you heed
it. It is this. You must tell me the truth. I don’t mean refrain from
falsehood only, but tell me everything—_everything_ you know. It is
only fair to say that if you hold anything back I can no longer help
you, and you may be signing your own death warrant. Do you realise
that?’

‘I certainly do. You need not be afraid. I’ll be only too thankful to
tell you. Now ask your questions.’

‘You forget I know nothing of the case as yet. Just tell me the whole
business from beginning to end and with all the details you can.’

Austin sat motionless for a moment as if collecting his thoughts,
then, settling himself more comfortably, he began to speak.

He opened by explaining his relations with his father, and his mode of
life in Halford, and then described his friendship with Lois Drew,
culminating in his proposal and the engagement. He told of the note he
had received on that fatal Wednesday evening, his taking the boat to
the Old Ferry, the self-styled servant of Mrs Franklyn, her message,
his walk to the Abbey, his visit to the Franklyns’ house, and his call
at the Drews. Then he recounted the circumstances of Sir William’s
death, the call from Innes, the inquiries at Dr Graham’s, the search
for and discovery of the body, the subsequent inquest, the interview
with Tanner, the latter’s questions, and the demand for the shoes, and
finally, the medical evidence at the adjourned inquest, and his
arrest. He stated he had no idea what the discovery was which led to
this culmination.

It was clear to Jimmy Daunt that he must hear Tanner’s side of it
before he knew where they stood. Nothing more could be done that
night. He therefore told his new client to keep his heart up, took his
leave and went home.

The proceedings next morning were purely formal, evidence of arrest
only being given. Austin was remanded for a week, bail being refused.

Daunt made it his business to see Lady Ponson, Enid, and Cosgrove, all
of whom expressed themselves as being heartily in agreement with
Austin’s selection of advice. It was decided that if the case went on
to trial, Sir Mortimer Byecroft, K.C., one of the most eminent
criminal experts at the bar, should be retained for the defence.

When Daunt received the depositions of the crown witnesses, he saw at
a glance that he was up against something very much stiffer than he
had anticipated. The motive suggested for the crime was horribly
adequate. In the face of Austin’s story of his visit to the Abbey
ruins, the evidence of Lucy Penrose and young Potts was almost
overwhelmingly damaging. But when Daunt read of the purchase of the
two identical pairs of shoes, and grasped the theory of the faked
alibi which this seemed to support he was genuinely aghast. ‘Heavens!’
he thought, ‘if the fellow hasn’t an explanation of this, he’s as
guilty as sin!’

Accordingly, Daunt lost no time in again seeing his client, and at his
interview he did not mince matters.

‘Look here, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘There are two bad bits of evidence
against you and I want to hear what you have to say about them. About
9.30 that night you tell me you were half-way to the Abbey. Is that
so?’

‘Certainly. I was on the path between the Abbey and the road.’

Daunt leant forward and watched the other keenly, as he spoke slowly
and deliberately.

‘Then how do you account for the fact that you were seen rowing a boat
up to the Luce Manor boathouse at just that hour?’

Austin Ponson started and his face grew dead white. He sat motionless
for several seconds gazing with terrified eyes, at his questioner, and
apparently unable to speak.

‘What’s that you say?’ he gasped at last, licking his dry lips.
‘Impossible! I—I wasn’t there.’ He dropped his head into his hands
while the sweat stood in drops on his forehead. Daunt waited silently.
His doubts were becoming confirmed. The man surely was guilty.

Presently Austin raised his head.

‘This is awful news,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I can only say I wasn’t
there. I swear it. There is a mistake. There must be. Who is supposed
to have seen me? And from where?’

In Daunt’s opinion the answer was unconvincing. The man’s manner was
shifty. Unless Jimmy was greatly mistaken he was lying. He replied
somewhat coldly:

‘Two people in Dr Graham’s wood at the other side of the river are
prepared to swear to it.’

‘Two?’ Austin groaned. ‘My God! How can they? They must have seen
someone else, and mistaken him for me.’

‘Suppose it was proved there was no other boat down the river that
night but yours. What will you say then?’

‘What can I say? I don’t understand it. That could not be
proved—unless someone took my boat from the Old Ferry.’ He sat up
eagerly and a gleam came into his eye. ‘Could that be it, Mr Daunt?
Could whoever worked the trick on me have been watching at the Old
Ferry, and have taken my boat when I went ashore? What do you think?’

This was an idea which had not occurred to Daunt, and he instantly saw
that it might account for the whole thing. Suppose the real murderer,
knowing of Austin’s financial relations with his father, had seen how
that fact could be used as the basis of a case against the son, and
had added details to strengthen it. Suppose he had forged notes,
getting Austin to bring a boat to the Old Ferry, and, leaving it
there, go to the Abbey. Meanwhile he himself, made up to represent
Austin, might have taken the boat to the boathouse, committed the
murder and returned the boat to the Old Ferry before Austin arrived
back? Daunt felt that this was a possibility which must not be
overlooked. It might at any rate be a line of defence.

Then he remembered the shoes. No. If Austin had deliberately made a
fake with the shoes, he must be guilty. He spoke again.

‘Unfortunately, there is another very serious point. Your alibi
depends on the fact that the prints made at the Abbey were made by
shoes which it can be proved you were wearing on that Wednesday night
and at no other time. Isn’t that so?’

‘That is so.’

‘How many pairs of that kind of shoe had you?’

‘One pair.’

‘Then how do you explain the fact that you bought two pairs on the
Monday before the murder?’

This time Austin showed no signs of embarrassment.

‘I bought two—yes,’ he answered readily, ‘but I only brought one home.
I lost the other.’

‘Lost the other? Just how?’

‘Very simply. I went that Monday to Hunt’s shoe shop in Piccadilly and
there I bought a pair of shoes. I had them carefully fitted, and was
pleased with them. The shopman gave me a card with their number, in
case I should want to replace them. I took them with me, as I was
hurrying to catch the 3.25 train from St Pancras. I had to call at a
shop in Regent Street, and I walked there. But as I stepped off the
footpath to cross the street, a lorry I hadn’t seen came quickly up,
and I had to jump back out of its way. I was startled, and I
unfortunately dropped the shoes. As luck would have it they were run
over by the lorry. A hawker picked them up and returned them, but one
was badly torn, so, as they were no further use to me, I made him a
present of them. That left me without any, so I decided to replace
them. I noticed another of Messrs Hunt’s shops close by, and I went in
and asked for shoes of the number on the card. That saved me from a
troublesome refitting. By the time my purchase was complete I was late
for my train. I therefore waited till the 5.15. Does that make the
matter clear?’

Daunt was relieved, but somewhat puzzled by what he had heard.
Unquestionably, Austin’s explanation was plausible, and he could see
no reason why it should not be true. If the hawker who got the shoes
could be found it would set this part of the matter at rest, but Daunt
feared he would be untraceable. He felt doubtful and dissatisfied in
his mind about the whole affair, but he saw that Austin’s statements
provided a line of defence, though whether the best available he was
not yet certain.

Still turning the idea over in his mind he went down the next Saturday
to Halford, to spend, on the earnest invitation of Lois, the weekend
with the Drews.



CHAPTER X.

A Woman’s Wit

After dinner on that Saturday evening, Lois Drew had a long
conversation with her cousin, James Daunt. She waited until he was
seated in the most comfortable chair in the drawing-room with his
cigar well under way, and then she spoke of the subject next her
heart.

‘Tell me, Jimmy,’ she begged, ‘just what you _really_ think. I want to
understand exactly what we have to meet.’

He told her. Directly and without any attempt to gloss over the uglier
facts, he told her all he knew. She listened in silence for the most
part, but occasionally interjected shrewd, pertinent questions. Jimmy,
who knew and respected his cousin’s intellect, yet marvelled at her
grip, her power of letting go irrelevant details, and the unhesitating
way in which she went straight to the essential heart of the various
points. When he had finished she remained silent for a considerable
time.

‘It seems to me then,’ she said at last, ‘that Austin’s suggestion
must be the truth—that the murderer forged the notes purporting to be
from me, and which brought Austin to the Abbey that night, that he
waited for Austin’s arrival at the Old Ferry, that either he had an
accomplice there or he himself was disguised as Mrs Franklyn’s
servant, that on Austin’s leaving for the Abbey he made himself up to
look like Austin, that he rowed to the boathouse, committed the
murder, and returned the boat to the Old Ferry before Austin got back.
What do you think, Jimmy?’

‘It seems a possible defence.’

‘It seems more than that; it seems to be what happened. If so, let us
consider what that teaches us about the murderer. Several things, I
think. Tell me if I go wrong. Firstly, he must have had a strong
motive for Sir William’s death. Secondly, he must have known all about
the family—Sir William’s habits, the lie of Luce Manor, the household
arrangements, and that sort of thing. Thirdly, he must have been
acquainted with Austin, and _his_ house and habits, and fourthly, he
must not only have been aware of my existence and friendship with
Austin, but he must have had my handwriting to copy. Surely there
can’t be many persons in the world to whom all these conditions
apply?’

‘One would say not,’ Daunt returned slowly. ‘It’s very unfortunate, of
course, but you must see how the prosecution will use all these points
you bring up—every one of them can be turned against Austin.’

‘I know, but that’s only wasting time. The fact that Austin’s
innocence rules him out surely makes the search for the real murderer
easier?’

‘Why, that is so, I suppose.’ Daunt tried to make his voice cheery and
sanguine.

‘Very well. I came to that conclusion days ago. Now Jimmy, it’s a
horrible thing to say, but who is the only other person we know of
that fits the conditions?’

Daunt looked up swiftly. It was suddenly evident to him that Lois was
speaking with a more direct object than he had thought.

‘I don’t know, Lois,’ he answered. ‘Who?’

‘Who but the cousin—Mr Cosgrove Ponson?’

‘Good Heavens! That never occurred to me. But does he fill the bill?’

‘I have thought so for some time, but it’s a matter for you to find
out. But just consider. Mr Cosgrove benefits by the will—Austin told
me so. He knew Sir William and all about Luce Manor; he knew Austin
and all about _him_; he was like Austin in appearance; and lastly he
knew me—he has dined here with Austin.’

‘Your handwriting?’

‘I wrote to thank him for sending me the name of an English _pension_
at Cannes—a friend of mine wanted to know.’

‘When was that?’

‘About two months ago.’

‘Seems rather a long time. And when did he dine?’

‘About a week before that. I happened to mention about the _pension_,
and he said he had some addresses and would look them up.’

‘And what kind of man is he personally?’

Lois did not reply for some moments.

‘That’s hardly a fair question,’ she said at last. ‘I have to admit
taking a dislike to him. But it’s not a question of my likes or
dislikes. I think it is essential that you should find out something
about him. Find out where he was on that Wednesday evening.’

Daunt smoked in silence. He was thinking that if Austin were out of
the way as well as Sir William, Cosgrove’s gains would not improbably
be considerably increased. There might be something in this idea of
Lois’s after all. A few inquiries would do no harm at any rate.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll do as you say. I’ll find out something
about him.’

They continued the discussion, and it was arranged that as soon as any
information was forthcoming, Lois would go to town, and they would
have another talk.

As Sir William Ponson’s will was to be one of the factors in the Crown
case, Daunt had no difficulty in obtaining a copy. That, and a few
judicious inquiries convinced him of the importance of Lois’s
suggestion. There seemed no question that Cosgrove’s motive for the
deed was at least as strong as Austin’s.

For some time Daunt puzzled over the best way to get hold of his
information. Then it occurred to him that so wide-awake an official as
an Inspector of Scotland Yard would certainly have foreseen and
considered all that he and Lois had discussed. As Cosgrove had not
been arrested, there must be some flaw in the case he was trying to
make. He decided to see Tanner once more, in the hope of gaining some
information.

With a man like Tanner there was nothing to be gained by any but the
most direct methods. Daunt could ask for what he wanted, and either
get it or be refused, but he felt he could not obtain it by a trick.
To try his luck he called at the Yard and inquired for the Inspector.

‘I want to get some information, Mr Tanner,’ he said, when they had
conversed for a few moments. ‘I’m going to ask you for it in
confidence, but you may not consider it proper to give it to me, and
if so, there is of course no more to be said. It’s not directly about
the case.’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘It’s this. In going into this matter it has struck me that the
nephew, Cosgrove Ponson, had as much to gain by his uncle’s death as
the accused. It is obvious that that must have struck you also. I
wondered if you would tell me why you acquitted him in your mind?’

‘Now don’t you get astray on that notion, Mr Daunt. It won’t wash. I
went into that, and I may tell you for your private information
Cosgrove is as innocent as you are.’

‘So I gathered from your action, in the matter, but if you could see
your way to give me particulars, I should be greatly obliged. You see,
it’s Miss Drew. She’s got it into her head Cosgrove was the man, and
I’d like to be able to clear the thing up to her.’

Tanner thought for some moments.

‘I’d like to oblige both you and Miss Drew,’ he said, ‘but I’m not
just sure that I ought. However, as you say, it’s not exactly on the
case, and if you give me your word to keep the thing to yourself I’ll
tell you.’

‘I promise most gratefully.’

‘Very well. The man has an alibi,’ and Tanner repeated Cosgrove’s
story of the visit to Montrose, the missing of the 7.15, the return to
his rooms, the call at the theatre on Miss Belcher, and the final
journey north by the 10.30. Then he explained how he had checked
Cosgrove’s statements, and produced his calculation of times and
distances, showing that Cosgrove could not have motored to Luce Manor.

To Daunt the whole thing seemed utterly conclusive. Apart from the
mere fact that it had satisfied Tanner—no mean test—he could not
himself see any possibility of a flaw. With considerable apprehension
of the disappointment Lois would feel, he telephoned to her and
arranged their consultation for that evening.

She heard his story almost in silence. But she did not show the
chagrin he expected.

‘If the thing was obvious,’ she said in answer to his comment,
‘Cosgrove would have been arrested and not Austin. But I feel
absolutely certain that that alibi of Cosgrove’s is a fraud. He has
tricked Inspector Tanner. How he has done it is what you’ve got to
find out.’

‘My dear girl,’ Daunt remonstrated, ‘it’s all very well to talk like
that, and I’ll do my best of course, but you know, if Tanner with all
his opportunities was taken in, it’s not too likely I shall find the
flaw.’

‘It’s quite likely,’ she declared. ‘Inspector Tanner was not specially
looking for a flaw; you are. Don’t you see—there must be a flaw. Look
at it like this. A man resembling Austin was met by Sir William at the
boathouse on that Wednesday night. It _must_ have been Cosgrove,
because no one else is sufficiently like Austin to be mistaken for
him. No kind of facial make-up will meet the case, because Sir William
himself evidently was satisfied. Therefore Cosgrove’s alibi must be
false. Don’t you agree with me?’

‘It seems reasonable,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘But the alibi certainly looks
right enough too.’

‘I admit that. It may be so good that we’ll never find the flaw. But
we must try. Oh, Jimmy,’ she turned to him beseechingly, ‘remember
what is at stake—his life—both our lives. You will try, won’t you?’

‘Of course I’ll try, and what’s more, I expect to succeed,’ Jimmy lied
bravely. And he spoke in the same confident tone as, after dinner, he
went to the station with her, and saw her off by the 9.30 to Halford.
But his secret feelings were very different.

Two days later he had another call from Lois.

‘You needn’t be frightened,’ she smiled at him; ‘I am not going to
haunt the office and make your life a burden to you. But I have been
thinking over our problem. I want you, Jimmy, to begin an
investigation. Will you?’

‘Why certainly, if I can. What is it?’

‘If you haven’t time yourself, and I don’t expect you will have,
employ a private detective. But get a good man who will do the work
thoroughly.’

‘Yes, yes. But what exactly is to be done?’

‘This. The evidence seems to me overwhelming that Mr Cosgrove missed
the 7.15 at King’s Cross on that Wednesday night, and went to Montrose
by the 10.30. But what did he do in between?’

Daunt was puzzled.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We have the butler’s and Miss
Belcher’s evidence to corroborate Cosgrove’s own story there. I don’t
see that we can reasonably doubt he did what he said.’

‘Don’t you? But I do. Probably both these people were interested. Miss
Belcher we know was—she was on too friendly terms not to be. And the
butler may have been well paid to tell his story. Another thing makes
me doubt Miss Belcher. You remember the conversation Mr Tanner
overheard between her and Mr Cosgrove in the restaurant? They
mentioned an alibi. Mr Tanner thought they were talking about Austin.
I don’t believe it. It was Mr Cosgrove’s own alibi they were
discussing. What do you think?’

‘It’s possible, of course,’ Daunt answered slowly, ‘but I question if
we can be sure of it.’ He began to think Lois had got an obsession.

‘Well, whether or not is immaterial. What matters is that Mr
Cosgrove’s whereabouts after 7.30 has not been proved.’

‘But you forget Tanner’s time table. Cosgrove wouldn’t have had time
to go to Luce Manor between the trains.’

‘Yes!’ cried Lois excitedly, ‘he would! That’s the point I’ve been
coming to. According to Mr Tanner’s calculations he would have had
time or almost time, to go to Luce Manor and back, but he wouldn’t
have had time to commit the murder. But Mr Tanner assumed he had first
driven to his rooms. If he had gone direct from King’s Cross he would
have had time for all.’

This was a new idea to Daunt, and he had to admit its possibility.

‘It may be so certainly,’ he answered, ‘but how are we to prove it?
That butler won’t give himself away if he has lied.’

‘I’ve thought of that, too, and there seems to be one way we might get
at it. Mr Cosgrove said he took three drives during that time—first,
from King’s Cross to Knightsbridge; second, from Knightsbridge to the
Empire; and third, from the Follies’, to King’s Cross. Could we not
find the cabmen, or at least one of them?’

‘By Jove, Lois, you should have been a detective,’ Daunt said with
half-unwilling admiration. ‘I believe it’s a good notion.’

‘You see, if we were to search for these men thoroughly and fail to
find them, it would greatly strengthen my theory. On the other hand,
if we found them we would be sure of what we are up against, for if Mr
Cosgrove took any one of the drives, his statement must be true. Will
you try to find them, Jimmy? Or’—her eyes brightened eagerly—‘let’s do
it together. Would you mind?’

‘Mind?’ he echoed. ‘Dear girl, what do you take me for? I’m ready to
begin now—in collaboration with you, that is.’

‘Dear Jimmy, you are so good. I can never thank you enough.’

‘What utter rubbish. Now let’s get to work. Have you made any plans?’

‘I thought perhaps we could get lists from the taxi companies of the
men on the various stands. Then I thought we could see all those on
the stands nearest the three starting points. If it was none of these
could we not send a letter to each driver in London—get some office
supplies place to do it, you know? If this failed we might try
newspaper advertisements.’

‘Excellent. We could get the lists of the men through Tanner, if he
would give them. I’ll ring him up now.’

Inspector Tanner was at the Yard. On Daunt satisfying him as to the
reason of the demand, he promised to have the information looked up
and supplied.

The next day the lists came and the cousins set off to commence their
investigations. They saw a number of the men on the stands in
question, others at the depots and still others at their homes. After
three strenuous days they had gone over them all. But they learnt
nothing. None of the men had driven Cosgrove.

‘It’s hopeful,’ Lois announced as they dined together that evening,
‘but we must now try the circular.’

They drafted a letter offering a reward of £5 for information as to
the identity of the man who had driven a fare answering to Cosgrove’s
description on any of the three trips in question. With this Daunt
called to see Tanner on the following morning. He told him what they
had done, and what they proposed, and asked for a complete list of the
taxi and cab-drivers of London. Tanner, nothing loath to have his own
conclusions verified, had the information made out. Then Daunt went to
an office supplies firm in New Oxford Street, and arranged for a
circular to be sent to each man on the list—several thousand.

Two days passed and there was no answer, but on the third day a
taxi-driver giving his name as John Hoskins called at Daunt’s office.
Jimmy saw him at once.

‘It was abaht this ’ere letter,’ said the man. ‘I guess I’m the man
you want.’

‘Yes? You drove a fare on one of those trips on that Wednesday
evening?’

‘Yes, sir. I were just passing out of King’s Cross after setting down
a lady and gent, when the gent ’e hails me, “Engaged?” ’e asks. “No,
sir,” I says. “174B Knightsbridge,” ’e says. I drove ’im there, and
that’s all I knows abaht it.’

Daunt opened a drawer and took out half a dozen cabinet photographs,
which, in unconscious imitation of Tanner, he had procured. One was of
Cosgrove, the others of men as like Cosgrove as Jimmy could find.

‘Is the man you drove among those?’ he asked, handing them over.

The driver glanced over them and unhesitatingly picked out Cosgrove’s.

‘That’s ’im, mister,’ he said decisively.

‘And what time did you pick him up?’

‘Abaht 7.30. I left ’im in Knightsbridge at a quarter to eight.’

‘That’s all right, my man. It’s what I wanted to know. If you give me
your name and address I’ll give you the five pounds.’

Jimmy telegraphed the news to Lois at Halford, using for the benefit
of the postal officials a code on which they had previously agreed.
The information, he feared, would be a heavy blow to her. She had so
confidently made up her mind that Cosgrove was the guilty man, and
here was proof—to Daunt it seemed final and conclusive proof—of his
innocence. Even Lois herself had admitted that if Cosgrove had indeed
returned to his rooms after leaving King’s Cross, it would have been
impossible for him to have visited Luce Manor—times and distances made
that certain. Miss Belcher’s confirmation of his visit to the Follies,
and the discovery of the other two taxi drivers were therefore not
required. As matters stood, Cosgrove’s innocence was demonstrated.

So Daunt reasoned, but not so Lois Drew. As she tossed sleepless on
her bed that night she racked her brains for some flaw in the case,
some loophole that might save her lover. But the more she thought it
over, the more hopeless it seemed. As dawn brightened slowly into day
she had to admit herself beaten. And then, just as a delightful
drowsiness began to creep over her restless, wearied body, an idea
flashed into her mind. She remained motionless, hardly daring to
breathe as its full significance gradually dawned upon her. When it
did so all chance of sleep vanished. Her eyes became very bright, and
she laughed contentedly to herself.

She travelled to town by an early train and was in Daunt’s office soon
after it opened. She received his condolences quietly, then startled
him by saying demurely:

‘I want you to send out another circular to the taxi-men, Jimmy. I
have it here.’

The paper she handed him read:

                          ‘Ten Pounds Reward

  ‘The above reward will be paid to the taxi driver who picked up a
  fare’—here followed a description of Cosgrove—‘about 7.50 on
  Wednesday evening, 7th July, in or near Knightsbridge, on his
  identifying the man picked up from a photograph, and saying where he
  was set down. Apply—’ and here followed Jimmy’s address.

‘But my dear girl,’ the latter objected, ‘we have already sent that
out, or practically that.’

‘Never mind, Jimmy,’ she said, with one of the brilliant smiles that
lit up her face and made it momentarily beautiful. ‘Do this for me,
and don’t ask questions.’ Before he realized what she was going to do,
she had kissed him lightly on the forehead, and with a whirl of skirts
was gone.

‘By Jove!’ said Jimmy weakly to himself as the door closed. ‘What bee
has she got in her bonnet now? At any rate she might have waited and
explained.’ But he did what he had been asked, and two days later the
new circular was in the hands of the taxi-men.

And it bore early fruit. Only a few hours after its distribution there
was an answer. A small, sallow, rat-faced man in a peaked cap and
leather coat called to see Daunt.

‘You think you picked up the man described in the letter?’ asked
Jimmy, as he produced his six photographs. ‘Was he one of these?’

Like his _confrère_ of a day or two earlier, the man glanced over the
cards and unhesitatingly drew out Cosgrove’s portrait.

‘That’s ’im, mister,’ he also said decisively.

‘Where exactly did you pick him up?

‘In Knightsbridge, not far from Piccadilly.’

‘At what time?’

‘About ten minutes to eight.’

‘And where did you set him down?’

‘Over thirty miles away—at a cross-roads away beyond Luton.’

James Daunt sprang excitedly to his feet.

‘What?’ he roared. ‘Where did you say?’ Here, surely, was the
impossible! All were agreed that Cosgrove could not have made the run
in the time, and yet, it now seemed, he had done so. And then the
thought of the tremendous consequences of this discovery overwhelmed
every other consideration. If Cosgrove had really been to Luce Manor,
particularly after his own denial, he must unquestionably be guilty.
And if he were guilty, Austin was innocent. Jimmy believed he now held
the evidence which would save his client.

He thought rapidly for a few seconds.

‘At what hour did you reach this cross-roads?’ he asked.

‘About quarter-past nine, sir. I remember noticing when I was making
up the money.’

And the bogus servant met Austin at the Old Ferry about then! Truly
this was a great find!

‘Are you engaged within the next hour or two?’ Jimmy went on.

‘No, sir.’

‘Very good. Will you drive me to this cross-roads? I’ll make it worth
your while.’

They stopped at a post office and Jimmy sent a telegram to Lois asking
her to be at the end of the Old Ferry lane at midday. Then the run
began.

As the vehicle slipped quickly through the traffic, Daunt chuckled
with delight. Though he did not in the least understand how Cosgrove
had managed it, it was at least evident that he had visited Luce Manor
before taking the 10.30 to Montrose. And that, Daunt felt more than
ever certain, meant his guilt and the breakdown of the case against
Austin. Though, to do him justice, Jimmy’s chief joy was the thought
of the happiness this would bring to Lois, yet he was human enough to
realise the kudos which must come to him personally from the skilful
way he had unravelled the mystery. And yet, had he unravelled it? As
he looked back he had to admit that every particle of credit must go
to the girl. She it was who had suggested the steps which had led to
success—she who had evidently guessed the solution which even now
still eluded him.

In about an hour and a half they reached their destination, and Jimmy,
who knew the district from his visits to the Drews, saw with
satisfaction that the point was where the Halford-London road crossed
that which passed over the river bridge above the Cranshaw Falls. From
there to the Old Ferry was about ten minutes’ smart walk, and, if the
taxi-man’s statement was correct, Cosgrove could therefore have
reached Austin’s boat about 9.25. It would take him ten minutes or
more to row to the Luce Manor boathouse, so that he would arrive
there, say, between 9.30 and 9.40. This was quite sufficiently in
accordance with the statement of Lucy Penrose and young Potts that
they had seen the boat arriving about half-past nine. Jimmy recognised
delightedly that the whole thing was working in.

It was still about quarter to twelve, and Jimmy had the taxi run
slowly on to the Old Ferry lane. Lois was already there, and he lost
no time in putting her in possession of the facts.

‘You guessed that this happened?’ he queried.

‘Yes. I suddenly thought of it in bed, the night before I came up to
see you.’

‘But I can’t make head nor tail of it,’ Jimmy confessed. ‘Now it seems
that Cosgrove must have been at the boathouse between half-past nine
and ten, and yet he caught the 10.30 from King’s Cross, where he
couldn’t have arrived till at least 11.30. The thing’s an absolute
puzzle to me. Can you see light?’

‘Of course. He never caught the 10.30 at all.’

‘But, my dear girl, he did—he must have. You forget the porter at
Grantham and the dealer at Montrose.’

‘Not at all. He travelled no doubt by the 10.30 from Grantham to
Montrose. But that’s a very different thing. I’ll tell you, Jimmy,
what’s puzzling you. You haven’t studied your Great Northern time
table as I have. The 10.30 is not the only train in the day from
London.’

Daunt waited.

‘Well?’ he said impatiently.

‘Before that 10.30, as you might have known from Mr Tanner’s story of
his own movements, there runs a pick-up train. It leaves King’s Cross
at 10.00 and reaches Grantham at 12.28, ten minutes before the 10.30.
And that train, Jimmy, stops at three or four stations. It stops’—she
leant forward and whispered in his ear with an air of triumph—‘_it
stops at Hitchin at 10.45!_’

‘And Hitchin is only six miles from here! Good Heavens, how stupid not
to have seen that! Of course that’s what he did! After the murder he
motored to Hitchin and caught the relief train. Well, Lois, you
deserve all you’re going to get for thinking of it!’

‘But we’re not quite out of the wood yet,’ the girl reminded him. ‘We
have to find out how he went from here to Hitchin.’

‘Probably by the taxi,’ suggested Daunt, and they returned to where
the vehicle was waiting.

But his guess was incorrect. The driver assured them that on reaching
the cross-roads Cosgrove had paid him off and he had returned at once
to London.

‘I thought of that first,’ said Lois, ‘then I thought not, that he
would never have let any one man have so much information about his
movements. Then I wondered if he wouldn’t have arranged for a vehicle
from Halford to pick him up, but I saw that wouldn’t do either. At
last I thought the most obvious and indeed the least suspicious plan
would be to engage a car in Hitchin to run out for him. What do you
think?’

‘I believe you are right. Let’s run over to Hitchin now and make
inquiries.’

They reached the town in about quarter of an hour. There they paid off
their taxi, having noted the man’s name and address. Then after a
hurried lunch they got to work.

At the first and second garages they drew blank, but at the third they
had success. It appeared that late on the Monday evening before the
murder, a man, whom the proprietor instantly identified from the
photograph as Cosgrove, called and asked for a car to be sent to the
same cross-roads near Luce Manor. It was to be there on the following
Wednesday evening at 10.15, and was to wait for him and run him into
Hitchin. He gave no explanation of his movements, but he turned up at
the place a few minutes after the hour named, and was duly brought to
Hitchin and set down near the George Hotel. Daunt had the driver sent
for, and he stated he had seen his fare’s face in the light of a
street lamp when he was being paid, and he also unhesitatingly
selected Cosgrove’s photograph as that of the man.

‘How far is it from the George Hotel to the station?’ asked Daunt.

‘Three minutes’ walk, sir.’

Here at last was proof—utter and final proof. As the cousins left the
garage Jimmy once more congratulated his companion on her success.

‘But we’re not finished yet, Jimmy,’ she answered him. ‘We have to
find the woman—the false servant.’

‘You think it couldn’t have been Cosgrove?

Lois shook her head.

‘He could never have deceived Austin. Besides, the hours don’t work.
Cosgrove could hardly have reached the Old Ferry till after Austin had
left. In any case Cosgrove would never have had time to make up so
well.’

‘I agree with you. Then our next job is, cherchez la femme. Have you
any ideas as to how we should start?’

‘I don’t know if you will agree with me,’ Lois answered slowly, ‘but I
wonder if we should not take Mr Tanner into our confidence. He has
been very straight and very kind all through, and I’m sure if he knew
what we have learned he would take over the finding of the woman.’

‘By Jove, Lois, I believe you are right in this as in everything else.
I’ll go and see him now. Would you care to come too?’

‘No. I think you could do that best alone. I’ll come to town with you
and hear your report.’

They went up by the Great Northern, and Daunt drove to Scotland Yard.
Inspector Tanner was out.

‘I am the solicitor who is acting for Mr Austin Ponson—you know, the
Halford murder—and I bring some very material information about the
case. I should like to see someone in authority.’

He was asked to wait and presently was ushered into the presence of
Chief Inspector Edgar. This official had followed the case with
Tanner, and he heard Daunt’s story with thinly veiled amazement.

‘It’s the most extraordinary case I have come across for many a year,’
he exclaimed. ‘That makes two suspects, and Tanner’s off to Portugal
after a third.’

‘Good Lord! To Portugal?’

‘Yes, with an extradition warrant and all complete. Well, Mr Daunt, I
needn’t say how grateful we are to you and Miss Drew for what you have
done, and you may count on your information receiving the fullest and
most careful attention. When Tanner gets back, perhaps you wouldn’t
mind calling in and having a chat over the matter with him?’

When Jimmy returned to Lois and told her of the Portuguese expedition
she was as utterly amazed as he was. But there was no way of
satisfying their curiosity, and they had unwillingly to content
themselves to wait till Tanner’s return.



CHAPTER XI.

A Fresh Start

While Lois Drew and her cousin, James Daunt, were pursuing their
researches into the movements of Cosgrove Ponson, Inspector Tanner had
been far from idle. We may retrace our steps to the day of Austin’s
arrest, and follow the detective as he endeavours to complete his case
against the accused.

Having reached London with his prisoner, and handed him over to the
proper authorities, Tanner returned to the Yard and set to work on a
statement of the evidence he was prepared to supply to the Crown
Prosecutor.

But the more he considered this evidence, the less satisfied he became
with it. Tanner was an ambitious as well as a naturally efficient man,
and he hated giving over a case which was not complete in every
detail. Here, though the facts he had learned undoubtedly made a
powerful arraignment of Austin, they just stopped short of being
conclusive. Always there was the possibility of a plant, with the
accused as the innocent victim. At all events Tanner was sure a
defence on these lines would be attempted, and he was not quite
certain that he could meet it.

Another difficulty was his failure to discover the maker of the fifth
set of tracks on the river bank. Until this man was identified, and
his business there known, the affair would remain unsatisfactory.

Tanner determined he could not rest on his oars, but must continue his
inquiries in the hope of making his case overwhelming.

He recalled the fact that he had intended to follow up Sir William
Ponson’s visits to London in the hope of finding that the latter’s
business in town had some connection with his death. His attention had
been diverted into other channels by the unexpected information given
by Lucy Penrose and young Potts of Austin’s movements on the night of
the murder. But now his mind reverted to the point, and he decided it
remained his most promising clue. Without loss of time, therefore, he
began to work on it.

He remembered that he had already learnt the trains by which the
murdered man had travelled to town. He could thus start with the
practical certainty that Sir William had arrived at St Pancras at
11.40 on the Saturday and the Monday before the crime.

By what means would the deceased leave the station? Tanner did not
think a man of his position would walk or go by bus or tube. No, as
his private car was not available he would take a taxi. ‘I must find
the man who drove him,’ the Inspector thought.

He gave his bell a code ring, and instructed the assistant who
answered to undertake the inquiry. From the constables on station duty
the numbers of the vehicles which left on the arrival of the train in
question could be obtained, and it would be a simple matter to find
the drivers and learn by means of a photograph which of them had
driven Sir William, and to what point.

But Tanner was by no means sanguine that such an inquiry would bear
fruit. He believed that the deceased had not used his own car because
he wished to cover his traces. And if so he would probably have
avoided taking a taxi at the station. It would have been safer for him
to have picked one up in the street outside. Tanner therefore felt he
should if possible have another string to his bow. Where could such be
found?

A second line of inquiry soon suggested itself. Sir William would not
have passed the day without food. If Tanner could find where he
lunched, it would give him another point of attack.

The Inspector had learned from Innes his master’s usual restaurants,
as well as the names of his two clubs. As all these were extremely
expensive and exclusive, Tanner felt he might confine his researches
to places of the same type.

He began at once. Driving to the first club, he made exhaustive
inquiries. Sir William was a well-known figure there, and his death
had caused some of the attendants to recall in conversation the
occasion of his last visit. But this had been three weeks before the
murder. The men were positive he had not been there either the
Saturday or Monday in question.

At the second club Tanner received similar information. Here Sir
William had not been seen for over two months prior to his death.

The Inspector then began on the restaurants. By the time he had
visited the Carlton, the Savoy, and one or two others it was after
eight o’clock. He therefore gave up for the night and, going home,
busied himself in making out a list of other possible places at which
he would inquire on the following day.

Next morning he was early at work. He was very thorough and
painstaking, leaving no restaurant till he had interviewed every one
who might conceivably help him, from the manager down to the cloakroom
attendant. For a long time he had no luck. But at last in the late
afternoon, when he had worked half down his list and visited no less
than seventeen restaurants, he found what he wanted.

It was a small but expensive French place on the border of Soho, with
an unobtrusive exterior, and a quiet, excellent service—a place
frequented by a well-to-do but, Tanner somehow imagined, rather
disreputable clientéle. Here Sir William’s photograph received instant
recognition.

‘But yes, monsieur,’ the polite manager assured him. ‘I remember this
gentleman distinctly. He come here—let me see—about three weeks ago, I
think. He come early and he ask for me. He wish a private room and
lunch for three. Presently two other gentlemen join him. They lunch.
After coffee he give orders that they be not disturbed. They stay
there for ver’ long time. Then they leave and this gentleman’—the
manager tapped the photograph—‘he pay for all.’

‘Can you tell me what day that was?’

By looking up his records of the hire of the room the manager could.
It was Monday the 5th July. Further inquiries elicited the information
that Sir William had reached the restaurant about twelve, and had
remained till three, when he left with his friends.

‘Together?’ asked Tanner.

‘At the same time, monsieur, yes; but not in company. The old
gentleman’—again the manager indicated the photograph—‘he drive off in
a taxi. The other two walk.’

‘Now those other two. Would you kindly describe them.’

As he listened to the manager’s reply, the Inspector got a sudden
idea. He took from his pocket the half-dozen photographs he had used
when tracing Cosgrove’s movements, and asked the other if the two
friends were among them. The manager glanced over them, then bowed and
smiled.

‘These are the gentlemen,’ he declared, picking out those of Austin
and Cosgrove.

Inspector Tanner was greatly surprised at the news. What, he wondered,
could have been the business between these three, which was so secret
that it could only be discussed in a private room of a somewhat shady
foreign restaurant in Soho? Something dark and sinister, he feared. It
was evident that all three had desired to keep the meeting a secret.
Sir William had taken steps to cover his traces on the journey, and so
probably had the other two. At least if they had not, they had
practically denied being there. Both Austin and Cosgrove had stated
explicitly that they had not seen Sir William on the day in question.
Further, it must have been complicated business. Austin had been alone
with his father for at least two hours on the previous evening—Tanner
recollected that after dinner at Luce Manor on the Sunday the men had
not joined the ladies in the drawing-room—and here, the very next day,
an interview of three hours had been necessary. Or say two hours,
excluding lunch. A lot of business could be put through in two hours.
Tanner began to fear the whole affair was deeper and more complicated
than he had at first supposed.

He questioned all of the staff who had come in contact with the three
men, without result, until he came to the restaurant porter who had
called the taxi. Here he had more luck than is usual in such
inquiries. The taxi had been taken from a neighbouring rank, and the
porter recollected the driver, whom he had called several times
previously. He was an elderly, wizened man, clean-shaven and with
white hair.

After slipping a coin into the porter’s eager hand, Tanner walked to
the rank. The driver of the third car answered the description. Tanner
accosted him civilly, explaining who he was.

‘On Monday the 5th instant, just three weeks ago,’ he went on, ‘about
three in the afternoon, you were hailed by the porter at the Étoile
over there. Your fare was this gentleman’—he showed Sir William’s
photograph. ‘Do you remember it?’

The man looked at the card.

‘Why yes, sir, I remembers ’im all right.’

‘Where did you drive him to?’

‘I’m blessed if I can remember the name, sir,’ the driver answered
slowly, ‘It was to a little narrow street back of Gower Street. I
’adn’t ever been there before. The old gent, ’e directs me there, and
tells me to set ’im down at the corner, and so I does. ’E was standing
there when I saw ’im last.’

‘Could you find the place again?’

‘I believe I could, sir.’

‘Then drive me there,’ said Tanner, entering the vehicle.

The district they reached was a miserable, decaying part of town. The
streets were narrow—mere lanes, and the buildings high and unusually
drab and grimy even for a London backwater. The houses had been good
at one time, but the place had now degenerated into a slum. ‘What in
the name of wonder,’ thought Tanner, as he stood looking round at the
depressing prospect, ‘could have brought Sir William here?’

He paid off his driver and began to investigate his surroundings. He
was at a cross-roads, the broader street being labelled Dunlop Street,
the other Pate’s Lane. In Dunlop Street were a few shops—a bar at the
corner, a tobacconist’s, a grocer’s—all small, mean, and dirty. Pate’s
Lane appeared entirely given up to tenement houses.

Tanner felt utterly at a loss. He could form no conception of Sir
William’s possible objective. Nor could he envisage any line of
inquiry which might lead him to his goal. He seemed to be up against a
blank wall, through which he could see no means of penetrating.

He wondered if a former servant or mill worker might not live in the
neighbourhood, with whom the manufacturer might have had business. But
if so, and if by some incredible chance Tanner were to hit on the
person in question, he felt he would be no further on, and that all
knowledge of Sir William’s visit would almost certainly be concealed.

However, he would learn nothing by standing in the street, and he
walked to the bar at the nearest corner and entered.

The landlord was a big, red-faced man with a bluff manner. Tanner,
after ordering some ale, engaged him in conversation, deftly pumping
him. But he learned nothing. The man had not seen Sir William, nor did
the manufacturer’s name convey anything to him.

Tanner tried each of the other three corner shops of the cross-roads,
but again without result. Then, thinking that small tobacconists and
news-agents sometimes act as mediums between persons who do not wish
their connection to be known, he called at all the shops of these
kinds in the immediate neighbourhood. Again he was disappointed, as he
was also when he visited the pawnbroker’s. By this time it was getting
late, and he turned his steps homeward, intending to return on the
next morning and begin a house-to-house visitation in the vicinity of
the cross streets.

As he walked down the road towards Gower Street, he noticed three
buildings which he thought looked more the kind of place for a
rendezvous than any he had yet seen. Two were shabby and rather
squalid looking restaurants, the third a building slightly larger and
more pretentious than its neighbours. In faded letters it bore the
legend ‘Judd’s Family & Commercial Hotel’. Tanner decided that, before
beginning on the houses of Pate’s Lane, he would try these three.

Next morning he drew blank in the first of the restaurants. A visit to
the second was equally fruitless. But when he reached the hotel he had
a stroke of luck.

A rather untidy porter was polishing the brass bell-push, and Tanner
engaged him in conversation. Yes, he remembered a well-dressed old
gentleman calling about half-past three on that Monday, three weeks
earlier. He would recognise him if he saw him. Yes, he was sure that
was his photograph. The gentleman had asked was a Mr Douglas staying
in the hotel, and on being answered in the affirmative he had gone up
to the latter’s bedroom and remained with him for about half an hour.
Then he had left, and that was all the porter knew.

‘And what sort of a man was Mr Douglas?’ Tanner asked.

‘A small man, very small and thin,’ the porter returned. ‘Looked as
’ow a breath of wind would ’ave blown ’im away. Sort of scared too, I
thought.’

Tanner pricked up his ears.

‘What was he like in face?’ he asked.

‘’E was getting on in years—maybe sixty or more, and ’e ’ad a small,
grey goatee beard, and a moustache, and wore spectacles. ’E spoke like
an American man and was a bit free with ’is langwidge, damning and
cursing about everything.’

At last! Was this the man for whom he and Sergeant Longwell had been
searching—the man who had made the fifth set of tracks at Luce Manor,
and who had travelled from St Albans to London on the morning after
the crime? With thinly veiled eagerness Tanner continued his
questions.

‘Who cleans the boots here?’

The porter looked interested.

‘I do,’ he replied, ‘and why that?’

‘Only this. Can you remember what sort of boots this man Douglas
wore?’

‘Well, they were small, like himself. Small boots like you’d expect a
boy to wear.’

‘With nails in the soles?’

‘Just that. Guess, mister, you’re a ’tec?’

Tanner nodded.

‘From Scotland Yard,’ he answered. ‘I’m after that man Douglas, and if
you can tell me anything about him, I’ll make it worth your while.’

The man whistled.

‘Gosh! but I just thought he was a wrong ’un. Wot’s ’e been up to,
mister?’

‘Never mind now. Why did you think he was a wrong ’un?’

‘W’y, ’e looked scared fit to die. ’E ’ad something worrying ’im, ’e
’ad.’

‘All the time he was here?’

‘No, the morning ’e left. ’E got ’is tea the night before a bit
early—about ’alf five or thereabouts—and then went out, and ’e didn’t
come back till seven o’clock the next morning; walks in at seven
o’clock all shaking and grey about the face and calls for brandy.
Swallowed two large brandies nearly neat, ’e did. They pulled ’im
together some, and then ’e pays ’is bill and ’ooks it.’

‘Hooked it?’

‘Yes, we never saw ’im no more after that.’

‘And do you remember what day that was?’

‘No, but I can get it for you at the office.’

The porter vanished for a moment to a room at the back.

‘’E left on Thursday morning, the 8th.’

‘Did you notice anything about his boots that morning?’

‘Yes. They were covered with mud—just covered. You couldn’t but notice
them. And the ends of ’is trousers too. ’E looked as if ’e ’ad been up
to the knees in muddy water.’

Tanner was as nearly excited as his dignity would allow. There could
be little doubt, he felt, that this Douglas was indeed the man of whom
he was in search. The man’s size—a small man would take short
steps—the little, hobnailed boots, the wet and muddy trousers, the
goatee beard—these points considered cumulatively, made the evidence
of identity almost overwhelming. And in addition he had been out all
the night of the tragedy, and had returned in the morning shaken and
clamouring for brandy. Enough evidence to hang a man, Tanner thought
with satisfaction. He turned again to the porter.

‘What day did he come here first?’

‘I looked that up when I went to the office. It was on the Friday
evening before.’

‘He left no address, I suppose?’

‘Not ’im,’ said the porter with a wink.

‘How did he go away? Did he get a cab?’

‘Keb?’ returned the other disgustedly. ‘Not ’im. ’E took ’is bag in
’is hand and just ’ooked it on ’is blooming feet.’

Tanner replied absently. He was thinking that a man who departed on
foot from an hotel without leaving an address might not be so easy to
trace. And the best description of his appearance he could get was too
vague to be of much use. The porter had not noticed the colour of the
man’s eyes, if there was any scar or mark on his face or hands, the
shape of his ears, any peculiarity in his gait—none of the matters on
which identification depends. Tanner could only remind himself that a
general hazy notion was better than no notion at all.

He went to the office and saw the proprietor. The latter was a tall
weedy individual, dilapidated looking as his own hotel. But he spoke
civilly, and exerted himself to answer the Inspector’s questions,
calling in various maids, and an untidy waiter for the latter’s
interrogations. Unfortunately, none of them could tell anything Tanner
had not already learned.

The man had registered ‘William Douglas, Fulham Street, Birmingham,’
and with the proprietor’s permission Tanner cut out and pocketed the
leaf. Then he asked to see the room the visitor had occupied.

It was a small apartment on the fourth floor, supplied with the
minimum of cheap, rickety furniture. The bed was not made up, and dust
lay thick everywhere.

‘It hasn’t been occupied recently?’

‘Not since Mr Douglas had it,’ the proprietor admitted.

‘I’ll just take a look round, if you don’t mind,’ said Tanner. ‘Don’t
let me keep you. I’ll follow you to the office in a minute or two.’

Left to himself Inspector Tanner began one of his careful, painstaking
examinations. The entire contents of the room were minutely inspected.
Every inch of the carpet and the cracks between the floor boards were
examined in the hope of finding some small object which might have
been dropped. The drawers of the small wardrobe, the bedclothes, the
dressing-table and washstand, all were gone through with the utmost
care, but with no result. At last to complete his task the searcher
turned his attention to the fireplace.

A broken Japanese fan was stuck in the old-fashioned grate, and only
partially concealed a litter of matches, scraps of paper, bits of cord
and other debris. Tanner lifted out the fan and began to go through
the rubbish with the same scrupulous care. And then his perseverance
was rewarded.

Among the papers he found the charred remains of an envelope which at
once interested him. It was more than half burnt, a triangular portion
with the stamp on one corner only remaining. As he picked it up it
struck him it was of unusually good quality to find in a room of that
description—thick, cream-laid paper, which only a well-to-do person
would have used. A few letters at the end of each line of the address
remained visible. But at these he hardly glanced at first, his
attention being riveted on the postmark. The letters were slightly
blurred, but still he could read it clearly—‘HALFORD 4 PM 2 JY 20.’

[Illustration: Part of an envelope’s right-hand side, showing a
postmark and the ends of four words.]

As he looked at the large, firm calligraphy of the address, the
suggestion this name conveyed to him was confirmed—the envelope had
been written by Sir William Ponson. He examined the mutilated address.
It contained four lines, and from three to five letters remained at
the end of each. It was clearly not that of the hotel, and it
therefore might, if decipherable, lead to the discovery of the man in
question.

Tanner put the bit of burnt paper away in his pocket-book, and
continued his search. But he could find nothing else of interest, and
presently he took his leave.

From the nearest telephone call office he spoke to the chief of police
at Birmingham, asking him to try to trace a William Douglas who lived
in Fulham Street in that city, and he was not greatly surprised when
that officer, after asking him to hold on for a moment, informed him
that there was no street of that name in the town.

On reaching his office at the Yard the Inspector sat down at his desk,
and taking the burnt fragment of the envelope from his pocket, set
himself to try and puzzle out the address. The four lines ended in
‘—glas’, ‘—ttage’, ‘—rton’, and ‘—von’ respectively. Of these, the
‘—glas’ at the end of the first line seemed unquestionably to be part
of the name ‘Douglas’, and the Inspector was therefore not without
hope that this was the man’s real name.

Procuring another envelope of the same size, Tanner laid the charred
fragment on the top, and endeavoured to estimate from the spacing of
the ‘—glas’, what had preceded it. It was probable that, as there was
no ‘Esq.’, the line had commenced with ‘Mr’. But ‘Mr’ alone, or even
‘Mr W.’ or ‘Mr Wm.’ would not fill the line. Tanner tried to write ‘Mr
William Dou—’ in Sir William’s hand, and, as this seemed exactly the
size of the required space, he assumed this had been the first line.

The ‘—ttage’ at the end of the second line immediately suggested the
word ‘Cottage’. Writing in the ‘Co—’ in the same manner as the ‘Mr
William Dou—’ he found there would be left before it space for a word
of six or seven letters. Though his conclusions on this second line
were admittedly only guesswork, he still felt fairly sure of his
ground so far.

So many towns and villages ended with the letters ‘—rton’, Tanner felt
it useless to work at the third line. He therefore transferred his
attention to the fourth, merely noting that as the third did not end
in ‘Street’ or ‘Road’, the balance of probability was against the
fourth line containing the name of a town. But this, of course, was by
no means certain.

The fourth line ended in ‘—von’, and, considering the suggestion made
by the third line, Tanner determined to begin, by assuming this was
the name of a county. He got down an atlas and went over all the
counties in the three kingdoms. Two only ended in ‘—von’—Carnarvon and
Devon. He tried spacing these in and found neither would suit. ‘Devon’
was out of the question, as the ‘D’ came after the ‘n’ of the third
line, and ‘Carnarvon’, which fitted better, was still obviously too
short.

He set to work then upon the towns. It was clear that as the name was
the last in the address, the town must either be of considerable
importance, or else lie close to Halford. Tanner chose the latter
alternative first, and went over all the towns near Sir William’s
residence. He could find none to fit.

Sending for a Post Office Directory, in which towns with head
offices—and therefore important—are printed in capitals, the Inspector
laboriously ran his eye down the closely printed pages, searching for
names in capital letters ending in ‘—von’. There were scores in
‘—ton’, some in ‘—don’, some in ‘—ven’, and ‘—van’, but he was amazed
to find only two in ‘—von’—‘Carnarvon’ and ‘Stratford-on-Avon’. Of
these, while ‘Carnarvon’, as he had already found, seemed too short,
‘Stratford-on-Avon’ was clearly a good deal too long.

As he slowly pondered the matter, another idea occurred to him.
‘Devon’, he recollected, was rarely written alone, ‘North’ or ‘South’
was usually prefixed. To space out ‘North De—’ was the work of a
moment. And then he felt more satisfied, for these letters seemed
exactly to fill the required space.

While he fully realised that the evidence was by no means
conclusive—in fact, was but slightly removed from a guess—he thought
the probabilities of the last word being ‘Devon’ were such, that it
would be worth while investigating on the basis of this assumption
before trying any of the other names. The next question therefore
became, What, if any, places in Devon ended in ‘—rton’?

He soon saw there were a number. Tiverton, Ashburton, Silverton,
Merton, Halberton, Thorverton, Yelverton, Otterton, and Staverton he
picked up at once from the atlas, and he felt sure there must be
others, too small to be marked. His next step must therefore be to try
if a small, elderly man with a grey beard, named William Douglas,
lived in —Cottage, Tiverton, Ashburton, or one of the other places he
had found.

He took a sheet of paper and drafted a letter to the chief of the
local police at each of these places, asking him to forward the
information with regard to his own neighbourhood.

Two days later he received a wire from Yelverton. ‘William Douglas
lives at Myrtle Cottage near Yelverton Station.’

Tanner chuckled. He was getting on more rapidly than he could have
hoped.



CHAPTER XII.

A Stern Chase

When the 10.30 a.m. Riviera express pulled out of Paddington next
morning, Inspector Tanner was occupying a corner seat in one of its
first-class compartments. In his pocket was a warrant for the arrest
of William Douglas, in case his investigations should indicate that
such a step was desirable. He had determined that if his victim could
not account satisfactorily for his actions on the night of the murder,
or if his boots fitted the marks on the Cranshaw River bank, no other
course would be possible.

Once again the Inspector was favoured with magnificent weather for his
country ramble. Indeed, like the previous days, it was too hot, and as
the train slipped swiftly through the sun-baked country, he moved into
the corridor so as to make the most of the draught from the open
windows. Each time that he had made this journey in the past he had
enjoyed it, especially the portion between Exeter and Newton
Abbott—down the estuary of the Exe, past Dawlish and Teignmouth with
their queer spiky, red rocks, and precipitous little cliffs running
out into the blue sea, then farther on inland again through the hilly,
wooded country of South Devon, where one caught unexpected glimpses of
tiny, nestling villages, and of narrow lanes, winding mysteriously,
between mossy, flower-spangled banks under the cool shade of
overhanging trees.

He reached Plymouth—the first stop since leaving Paddington—shortly
before three. Changing at North Road, he boarded a branch line train
after a short wait. A run of a few minutes brought him to Yelverton.
Here he alighted, and when the Launceston and Princetown trains had
rumbled off, he accosted the stationmaster.

‘I am looking for a Mr William Douglas of Myrtle Cottage,’ he said.
‘Can you tell me where that is?’

The stationmaster could. Myrtle Cottage, it appeared, was half a mile
away on the road to Dousland, and Tanner, having received directions
as to his route, set off to walk.

The house was small and surrounded by trees, through which the gables
showed picturesquely. It was set back some little distance from the
road, a path leading through a not very well kept flower garden to the
door. Mr Douglas was evidently an apiarist, for a row of wooden hives
lined each side of the path, and the hum of the insects was audible
even from the road. Along the side of the garden, and passing close to
the gable of the house ran a lane, from which a large gate led to a
yard in the rear. This gate, Tanner noticed, was standing open.

He walked up the path and knocked at the green-painted door. For some
time there was no response, but after a second and more peremptory
summons he heard footsteps approaching. The door was opened by a small
man with grey hair and a beard trimmed short.

‘Got him first shot,’ thought Tanner, as he politely asked for Mr
William Douglas.

The man threw the door open.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said. ‘My brother is upstairs. I’ll call him.’

‘Your brother?’ asked Tanner sharply, as he followed his guide to a
rather poorly furnished sitting room.

‘Yes. I’m John. I’ve lived here for some years, but William is just
back from America.’

Tanner nodded. He recollected the hotel porter had stated that William
Douglas had spoken with an American accent, whereas this man clearly
hailed from the north of England. Besides, the beard was different.
The porter had mentioned a goatee, but the speaker’s was cut to a tiny
point.

‘Sit down, sir,’ said the man civilly. ‘I’ll send my brother down.’

He indicated a chair opposite the door, and Tanner took it. From where
he sat he could see the foot of the staircase, and he watched John
walk to it and leisurely ascend. Presently he heard him call
‘William!’

A nasal voice answered, but the Inspector could not hear the words.
John’s voice, now more distant, mumbled something in reply, and there
was a word, apparently of assent, from the other.

Tanner glanced round the room. Beside the easy chair in which he
sat—leather lined, and very old and worn—there was not much that made
for comfort. A deck chair stood with its back to one of the rather
small windows. In front of the other window was a table on which lay a
number of books, mostly dealing with bee keeping. The floor was
covered by a carpet, the worn, threadbare condition of which was
brought out pitilessly by the rays of the sun which struck obliquely
across it. Tanner got up and began to poke about, but without taking
his eye off the bottom of the stairs. William, it was evident, was in
no hurry to come down.

Suddenly there came faintly the purr of a motor engine, and in a few
seconds the sounds indicated that a car had started at no great
distance away. It grew louder, and Tanner moved to the window. The
sitting-room was in the gable beside the lane, and as the Inspector
looked out he saw a small two-seater with one occupant pass out
towards the road. But this occupant was a small man, and though his
collar was turned up and his cap pulled down over his eyes, Tanner
could see he had a grey beard.

He stood for a moment wondering how John had got downstairs without
having been seen. Then, as the house seemed strangely quiet, an idea
flashed into his mind, and he ran to the stairs and called, ‘Anyone
there?’ There was no answer, and with a sudden feeling of foreboding,
he raced up. Three rooms opened off a short landing, and the doors
being open, he glanced into each in turn. They were all empty!

A casement window on the landing was open, and as Tanner looked out,
he saw what had been done. About three feet below the sill was the
roof of a low shed. Nothing could be easier than to step out of the
window on to the roof, and drop to the ground. The open door of the
outhouse to which led many wheel tracks showed where the motor had
been kept.

Tanner swore savagely. Never before had he been so completely and so
easily duped. It was now evident to him that William Douglas had
recognised him approaching the house, and had invented a brother to
enable him to hold the Inspector’s attention while he bolted. And he
had played his cards skilfully! Ruefully the Inspector had to admire
the trick, though he surmised it had been worked out beforehand in
view of just such an emergency.

‘He’ll not get far,’ the angry man growled, as he prepared to follow.
But, thinking a moment or two would now make little difference, he
turned his steps instead to the kitchen. There on a shelf, as he had
expected, were three or four pairs of boots. Drawing from his pocket a
tracing of the marks on the Cranshaw River bank, he eagerly compared
it with the soles. Those of the first pair he took up corresponded!
Here was proof, if proof were required. William Douglas had been at
the Luce Manor boathouse on the night of the murder!

Seizing a small handbag he had noticed in the sitting room, the
Inspector packed the boots, then, after closing the windows, and
locking the yard gates and the house doors, he hurried back along the
road towards Yelverton. Inquiring for the local telephone call office,
he rang up the Plymouth police authorities, describing, so far as he
was able, the man and the car, and asking them to have a ring formed
round the locality. Hastening on to the Yelverton police station, he
told the sergeant what had occurred, and handing him the keys of the
cottage, instructed him to take charge, and to make a thorough search
of the premises.

He learned that a train left for Plymouth in a few minutes, and
travelling by it, he soon reached the police headquarters of that
city. Here he was met by a superintendent, and the two men discussed
the affair in detail.

‘I have done, I think, everything possible,’ the Superintendent
concluded. ‘All the stations at a radius of about twenty miles or more
have been advised, and the roads will be watched from Looe and
Liskeard round by Launceston, Okehampton, and Moreton Hamstead, to
Newton Abbott. All trains and steamers, as far as possible, will be
examined before departure, and the railway people at the smaller
stations will be advised. I don’t think he’ll make for Cornwall, you
know. It’s too much of a dead end. He will either go east in his car,
or come to Plymouth and try the trains, or even more likely, the
steamers.’

‘That is my own view,’ Tanner returned. ‘I suppose there’s nothing to
be done now but wait for information?’

‘I think we’ll hear something before long. If you haven’t had a meal,
I should get it while you have the chance. The Dartmoor Arms, a few
doors away, is quite good, and I’ll send for you if there is news.’

As this seemed sound advice, Tanner followed it. But he had not
finished his hastily served dinner when he was sent for. News had come
in.

‘I have a wire from the Tavistock men,’ the Superintendent explained.
‘A car answering your description has just been found abandoned in a
lane about quarter of a mile on the Yelverton side of Tavistock.
Evidently your man wouldn’t risk taking it through the town.’

‘Then he must be there himself.’

‘Unless he got away by rail. What time did you say he left Yelverton?’

‘About quarter-past four, or slightly later.’

‘From Yelverton to Tavistock is not more than about five miles. He
would do it easily in fifteen minutes. Say he would reach Tavistock
between half past four and quarter to five.’ The Superintendent picked
up a Bradshaw. ‘Here we are. By the Great Western there’s a 5.27 for
Plymouth and a 6.02 for Launceston. Now for the South-Western. There’s
a 5.22, and a 7.50 for Exeter. He’s gone either by that 5.27 to
Plymouth or the 5.22 to Exeter, and I should say the latter.’

‘It seems likely. Would your men have reached the stations before
those trains left?’

The Superintendent shook his head.

‘It’s just possible,’ he answered, ‘but I hardly think so. Your phone
was received at ’—he referred to a paper—‘4.42. Orders were issued
immediately, but considering telegraphic delays, they were probably
not received at Tavistock till five or slightly after. The men would
then have to be collected and instructed. They might have seen those
trains out, but it’s unlikely.’

‘Well, I’ll go on to Tavistock now anyway,’ Tanner decided. ‘I presume
you will have those trains searched?’

‘Of course. I issued a new set of orders immediately. Both trains will
be carefully examined, and the country all about Tavistock will be
scoured. We are well accustomed to that,’ the Superintendent added
with a grim smile.

‘The Princetown convicts? I suppose you are,’ answered Tanner, as with
a brief word of farewell he withdrew.

There being no train by either line for some little time, Tanner took
a car. As they climbed the long, slow incline to Yelverton, out of the
relaxing, enervating Plymouth air, he felt himself growing fresher and
more energetic. He was grimly determined not to rest till he had laid
his hands on the man who had duped him. From merely professional, the
matter had become personal. Tanner’s pride was involved. No one, he
swore, should play him such a trick and get off with it.

They slipped quietly through the fifteen or sixteen miles of
charmingly wooded country, dropping into Tavistock as the shadows
began to lengthen across the road. The sergeant had been advised of
Tanner’s arrival, and was expecting him. Together they ran back and
examined the abandoned car. Though they found nothing directly
helpful, Tanner felt sure it was the one he had seen from the sitting
room at Myrtle Cottage.

He turned to his companion.

‘Did you hear about this in time to examine the Plymouth and Exeter
trains at 5.27 and 5.22?’ he asked.

The other shook his head.

‘No, sir, I’m sorry to say we did not. But I have since made
inquiries. No one with a grey beard was seen at either station. At the
Great Western Station four persons booked, all third single to
Plymouth, but the clerk remembers one of these was a young sailor and
the others women. At the South-Western Station two tickets were issued
to Exeter, one a first to Major Reading, who lives here, the other a
third single to a little, elderly, clean-shaven man. Our men were
there within ten minutes of the train’s departure, so that’s how the
clerks remembered—between that and there being so few bookings.’

‘A small, elderly, clean-shaven man, sergeant? Let us go round the
Tavistock barbers.’

The sergeant looked up sharply.

‘By Jove! sir, a likely enough ruse,’ he cried. ‘It won’t take long to
find out—there are only three.’

They ran back to the little town, and at the first barber’s learned
that a small, elderly man with a short grey beard and moustache had
called at a few minutes before five, and had had his beard and
moustache shaved off.

‘Now to the telegraph office. We’ll have him before long.’

The Inspector sent messages to Plymouth, to Exeter, and to some of the
principal stations beyond, explaining that the bearded man of the
previous wires had had himself shaved. Then he looked at his watch.

‘Quarter to eight. Can I catch the 7.50? Phone to hold it while I run
across.’

He jumped into the car and drove to the South-Western Station. There
he caught the train for Exeter with a minute to spare.

He leaned back in the corner of a first-class compartment, and slowly
drew out and lit a cigar, while he turned over in his mind the next
step to be taken. He thought that at all events he should go on to
Exeter. The 5.22 from Tavistock, by which Douglas had travelled,
reached that city before his wire about the shaving had been sent out.
Therefore it was hardly likely that the man would have been detained
en route. Tanner, of course, recognised that a freshly shaven chin was
unmistakable, but he did not think a village constable would have the
sharpness to deduce what Douglas might have done, and act accordingly.
But from Exeter in what direction would the quarry head?

There seemed two possibilities. Probably he would try either to reach
London, or to get abroad. London, as Tanner knew, was perhaps the
safest place in the world for a criminal to lie hidden. But many
ill-doers had an overwhelming desire to put as great a distance as
possible between themselves and the scene of their misdeeds. If
Douglas were of this class he would try to get out of the country, and
if, as the hotel porter had stated, he spoke like an American, would
he not be likely to try to reach the country in which he might most
easily pass for a native? There was, of course, no means of knowing,
but at least it was clear that the approaches to London as well as the
ports should be closely watched.

In any case, whatever the fugitive’s goal, he would be almost certain
to pass through Exeter. It was true he could double back to Plymouth,
but the probabilities were he would keep away from the district in
which he was known. As Tanner’s train ran into St David’s Station,
Exeter, he felt sure his victim was not far before him.

A tall efficient looking sergeant of police was waiting on the
platform. This man, sharply scrutinising the alighting travellers,
promptly fixed on Tanner.

‘Inspector Tanner, sir?’ he questioned, and as the other nodded,
continued, ‘they phoned us from Plymouth you were coming through on
this train. We have inquiries in hand both here and at Queen Street,
the other station. So far we have heard nothing of your man.’

‘What exactly are you doing?’

‘We have a man at each station working the staffs—booking-clerks,
ticket collectors, porters, refreshment rooms—the usual thing. Another
man is going round the hotels, another the restaurants open at that
hour, and another the garages, in case he might have gone on by car.
Is there any other line you would wish taken up?’

‘Why no, sergeant. I think you have covered all the ground. Have you
advised your men that the fellow got shaved?’

‘Some of them, sir; some of them we couldn’t get hold of. We advise
them as we can get in touch with them.’

Tanner nodded again.

‘Well, we had better go to headquarters and wait for news.’

For a considerable time Tanner remained, chafing and impatient, until,
just as eleven was booming from the town clocks, a constable appeared
accompanied by a tall, fair-haired young man in a leather coat and
breeches, and a peaked cap. The latter explained that he was a taxi
owner, driving his own vehicle, and he believed he knew something that
might be of value.

It appeared that he had been at St David’s Station when Douglas’s
train had come in. He was engaged by a small, elderly, clean-shaven
man with grey hair, dressed in a tweed overcoat and a cloth cap. The
man seemed nervous and excited, and told him to drive to any
ready-made clothes store which would be open at that hour. He took him
to a shop in the poorer part of the town. The man went in, returning
in a few minutes dressed in a soft, grey felt hat and a khaki coloured
waterproof, and carrying a bundle. He re-entered the taxi and told the
driver ‘Queen Street Station as quick as you can.’ He drove there, and
the man paid him and hurried into the station, and that was all he
knew.

‘What time did you reach Queen Street?’ asked Tanner.

‘Going on to half-past seven.’

‘We’d better go to Queen Street and find out what trains leave about
that hour.’

Their visitor’s car was waiting outside, and engaging it, they drove
rapidly off.

For those who do not know Exeter, it may be explained that the Great
Western and London and South-Western Railways, both running from
London to Plymouth, form a gigantic figure 8, the centre where the
lines cross being St David’s Station, Exeter. In the same town, but a
mile nearer London on the South-Western, is Queen Street Station.
While therefore St David’s is joint between the two Companies, Queen
Street is South-Western only, and these facts seemed to indicate to
Tanner the probability that Douglas was going for a South-Western
train bound Londonwards.

A glance at the time table at Queen Street supported this view. A
train left for London at 7.32.

‘Your constable saw the booking-clerk, I suppose?’ Tanner asked.

‘Yes, sir. But of course he gave the wrong description. He did not
know the man had changed his cap and coat.’

‘That’s true,’ Tanner assented. ‘We had better see him again.’

The booking office was closed and the clerk had gone home. With
considerable difficulty they obtained his address from a watchman.
Then stepping into their waiting taxi, they were driven to it.

The house was in darkness, but their third thunderous knock produced a
sleepy and indignant householder. Tanner, who was a past-master in the
art, soothed his ruffled feelings, and he brought them in and civilly
asked their business.

‘You have been troubled about this before, I’m afraid,’ the Inspector
began. ‘I shall explain the affair in a word and you’ll see its
importance. A murder has been committed, and we have traced the
suspected man to Queen Street Station. He drove up in a great hurry
just before half-past seven this evening, and we imagine he must have
travelled by the 7.32. Now you will see why we want your help. If you
can recall the man and recollect where he booked to, it would be of
material assistance to us.’

‘A clean-shaven man in a brownish cap and coat?’ the clerk replied.
‘But I have already answered that. I saw no one so dressed.’

‘We have just discovered that he had bought a waterproof and a grey
felt hat. Can you recall him now?’

The clerk made a sudden gesture.

‘Why yes, I can,’ he cried excitedly, ‘I remarked him because he was
in such a fuss, and I told him he was time enough. I should have
thought of it when the constable asked me, but the description put me
off.’

‘Quite naturally,’ Tanner assured him smoothly, ‘but now if you can
tell us where he booked to, you’ll do us a very great service.’

‘I can do so. His excitement drew my attention to him. He took a third
single to Southampton.’

‘Southampton! Just as I expected,’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘Making for the
ships!’

The other nodded and Tanner went on:

‘Where would he get to from there? Would he catch the night boat for
Havre?’

‘No,’ answered the clerk as he fetched a time table and rapidly turned
over the leaves. ‘The 7.32 gets to Salisbury at 10.52, and there’s a
train on to Southampton Town at 11.00. It doesn’t go to the Harbour.
But the connection at Eastleigh is bad, and you don’t get to
Southampton till 12.30. The Havre boat leaves at 11.30.’

‘And what time do you get to Eastleigh?’

‘11.37.’

‘And from there to Southampton is how far?’

‘About seven miles to the docks.’

‘So that if he had taken a motor at Eastleigh he could have been there
by midnight?’

‘Yes, I should say about that.’

Tanner looked at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve. In from
five to thirty-five minutes Douglas would probably reach Southampton.
Would there be time to intercept him there?

Hastily thanking the clerk, the two men jumped once more into their
taxi and drove to the police station. There the Inspector hurried to
the telephone to call up the Southampton police. But there was a delay
in getting through. For thirty minutes he fumed and fretted. Then at
half-past twelve he got his connection.

‘I’m afraid the train will be in,’ replied the distant voice, ‘but if
it’s late we’ll get your man if he’s on it. If we miss him there,
we’ll go on to the Docks. There’s a Union Castle liner due out at five
o’clock. He may be going for that. What about the warrant?’

‘Hold on a minute,’ said Tanner, then turning to the sergeant, he
spoke rapidly:

‘A liner leaves Southampton at five for South Africa. Can I get there
with a good car? There are no trains, of course?’

‘None, sir. It’s about a hundred miles and you should do thirty miles
an hour—say three and a half hours. If you left here at 1.00, you
should be there by 4.30.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Then turning back to the telephone: ‘I’m leaving here
now by road for Southampton. You may expect me at the Union Castle
berth about 4.30. I’ll have the warrant.’

The taxi-driver they had been employing being unfamiliar with the
surrounding country, they drove to the nearest garage and after some
difficulty succeeded in knocking up a sleepy manager and hiring a
powerful car and a man who knew the road, at least as far as
Salisbury. But there were delays in getting away, and though the
manager did his best, it was nearly half-past one when the big vehicle
swung out of Exeter, eastward bound.

The night was fine but dark. As they purred swiftly along the smooth
road, Tanner lay back on the comfortable cushions and let the cool air
blow in on his heated forehead, while he took stock of the position.

He was perfectly aware that he might be on a wild-goose chase. The
taking of the ticket to Southampton might have been a blind, and
Douglas might not have done the obvious thing in making a bolt to the
most convenient port. After the ruse the man had employed at Myrtle
Cottage, Tanner felt he would not do the obvious thing unless he was
impelled to it by some strong consideration. But such a consideration
existed. There was the element of time. The man would realise that on
such a journey he must inevitably be traced, but he would hardly
imagine he could be traced in time. Before his pursuers could reach
Southampton he would count on having been able to adopt a new
personality, and put hundreds of miles of sea between himself and
them. The more Tanner thought over this possibility, the more likely
it seemed. If he were in Douglas’s position it was the view he himself
would have taken.

They were running well. Tanner watched the whirling hedges, lit up by
the strong headlights, and blurred by the speed into quivering
smudges, and judged they must be doing well on to forty miles an hour.
It was, of course, breaking the law; moreover, it was by no means
safe, but Tanner did not let such considerations weigh against the
chance of checkmating the man who had duped him. He had informed the
chauffeur he would be responsible if there was trouble.

He fell to reckoning distances. He was not very well up in the
geography of the district, but he knew there were two roads, north
through Yeovil and Salisbury, and south through Dorchester and Poole.
He imagined neither of these was quite direct, but he did not know if
there was a good road lying between them.

In about half an hour they slackened for a town, after which the road
rose for some miles. Then in half an hour more it fell again and they
ran through another town, whose name appeared on several
buildings—Chard. ‘The Salisbury Road,’ thought Tanner. Forty minutes
later they left Yeovil behind and at 4.10, nearly three hours after
leaving Exeter, they turned out of Salisbury on the Southampton road.

‘Not bad going,’ thought Tanner. ‘If we can keep it up we should be at
the boat at twenty to five.’

But alas! the driver’s knowledge of the road which had served them so
well up to Salisbury, now failed them. They had to reduce speed at
cross roads and run more cautiously. Fortunately, it was now fairly
light, or their progress would have been still slower.

Tanner, was getting nervous. It was going to be a near thing. He held
his watch in his hand and counted the mile-posts as one after another
they dropped behind. Now it was half-past four, and still they had
nine miles to go.

At last they came to the town. But here matters instead of mending,
grew much worse. Neither Tanner nor the driver knew the streets, and
precious minutes were wasted trying to puzzle out the way from the
rather inferior map the latter had brought.

Quarter to five. Tanner was in desperation. And then to his relief his
eye fell on a policeman. It was the work of a moment to call him over,
explain the situation, and get him up beside the driver. Then their
troubles were over. The streets were empty and they made fine speed.

It wanted ten minutes to five as the car pulled up at the docks, and
Tanner leaped out and raced to the berth of the great liner. A man
whom he instantly recognised as a policeman in plain clothes stood
near the bottom of each gangway, while a third was sauntering along
the edge of the wharf beside the boat. Tanner spoke hurriedly to the
latter.

‘He’s not on board, sir,’ the man answered. ‘We were here before he
could have got down from the Town Station, and besides we made
inquiries.’

‘The other side of the ship?’ queried the Inspector.

‘We have a man rowing up and down.’

Tanner grunted.

‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked.

‘Sergeant Holmes. He went to phone the station. He’ll be back
directly.’

Tanner was woefully disappointed. He felt that if Douglas was not
already aboard he would never risk it now. Had the man, he wondered,
been sharper than he had counted on, and once again given him the
slip? Fortunately, he had taken the obvious precaution of wiring all
the stations at which the 7.32 stopped, so that, even if Douglas had
alighted elsewhere, he would almost certainly be spotted. But had
Douglas travelled by the 7.32 at all? Was his haste with the taxi and
his purchase of the ticket another trick, and was he lying low in
Exeter, intending still further to alter his appearance and make a
bolt elsewhere? Or was he walking all night with the object of joining
a train at some quite different station in the morning? Tanner could
not guess.

Three minutes only remained and Tanner grew more and more anxious. It
was now or never. Then, as the gangways were being hoisted, a sergeant
of police appeared and went up to one of the plain clothes men. Tanner
hurried forward.

‘Mr Tanner, sir?’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but you’re
late.’

‘Late?’ Tanner cried sharply. ‘What do you mean, sergeant? There’s
plenty of time to go on board still.’

The sergeant shook his head.

‘He’s not there, sir. He’s gone. I’ve just learnt that he left by the
_Vaal River_. She sailed at four o’clock.’

‘Damnation!’ cried Tanner angrily. ‘What were you thinking about,
sergeant? How in hell did you let him slip through your fingers?’

‘The man I sent down, sir, missed him. I can’t imagine how he did it,
but you’ll hear what he has to say yourself. After I had all—’

‘I’ll see him,’ said Tanner grimly. ‘How did you find it out?’

‘I posted the men, sir, first, then I went round them myself. I got to
the _Vaal River_’s berth as she was sheering out. I made inquiries at
the office. There is no doubt the man booked.’

‘Where to?’

‘Tangier, sir.’

‘H’m—Morocco, and there’s no extradition from there. Where else does
the boat call?’

‘Lisbon, Marseilles, Naples, Suez, Delagoa Bay and Durban.’

‘I’ll get him at Lisbon. Show me the office.’

They hurried down to the East Africa Line Quay office. There Tanner
interviewed the booking clerk and satisfied himself that Douglas
really had sailed. He had booked under the name of Walter Donnell.

‘Lisbon is the first call?’ asked the Inspector.

‘Yes. She’s due there about six on Thursday morning.’

‘And this is Tuesday. That’s about a fifty hour run?’

‘About that.’

‘I must get there before her. How am I to do it?’

The clerk stared.

‘I’m afraid you can’t,’ he answered slowly. ‘She’s not a specially
fast boat, but there’s no other leaving soon enough to pass her.’

‘Overland?’

‘No. There’s not time. If you had caught the Havre boat last night you
could have done it. You can’t now.’

‘Let me see the time table.’

The clerk produced a Continental Bradshaw.

‘Here you are,’ he said, turning to the ‘Through Routes’ on page 6.
‘You see there are two trains a day from Paris to Lisbon. One, the
ordinary, leaves Paris at 10.22 at night. It gets to Lisbon at 12.33
two nights later—that is, about a fifty hours’ run. That’s out of the
question, and you’ll see the other is too. It’s a special fast train,
the Sud Express, and it leaves Paris at 12.17 midday, and reaches
Lisbon at 10.50 the following evening—that is thirty-four hours and a
half. Now if you could catch that train today you’d be all right. But
you couldn’t. Even if you could catch the 8.00 a.m. from Victoria,
which you couldn’t. That would only bring you into Paris at 5.29—five
hours late.’

‘How long does your boat lie at Lisbon?’

‘About four hours. She’s due away about ten on Thursday morning.’

Tanner felt he was up against it. So far as he could see it was
impossible for him to reach Lisbon before 10.50 on the Thursday night,
and by that time the man he wanted would already have left some twelve
hours. And if he missed him at Lisbon, he would miss him for good. He
could never get him once he was ashore at Tangier. Nor was it any more
possible for another officer from the Yard to go in his place.

Of course, there were the Portuguese police. Tanner had never been in
Portugal, and knew nothing whatever about its police, but he had the
not uncommon insular distrust of foreign efficiency. As he put it to
himself, he would rather rely on himself any day than trust to any of
these foreign chaps. But there seemed no other way.

Absently thanking the clerk, he walked with the sergeant back to his
car and drove to the police station. As he dismounted an idea shot
suddenly into his mind.

‘Get the car ready for another run,’ he shouted and hurrying to the
telephone, put through a call to Scotland Yard.

‘Yes, I’m Tanner,’ he said, when the connection was made. ‘The Ponson
Case. That man Douglas I’m after got away on the _Vaal River_. Sailed
from Southampton at four this morning. First call Lisbon. I must be
there to meet him. It can only be done if I leave Paris at 12.17
today. None of the ordinary services would get me over in time. Can
you arrange with the Air people to give me a plane?’

He was told to wait, and at six o’clock the reply came.

‘The Deputy Chief has arranged for a fast plane to leave the drome
near Petersfield as soon as possible. Get there at once and report to
Major Forbes. Call at Hendon and we shall have French and Portuguese
money for you, as well as the extradition warrant.’

Tanner was not long in reaching Petersfield, but there was a delay at
the aerodrome, and he chafed impatiently as the precious minutes
slipped away. It was not indeed till a little after seven that the
actual start was made. The morning was clear at first, and they made
good speed to Hendon, alighting and picking up the money and papers.
But as they reached the coast they ran into a haze, which soon
developed into a thick fog. The pilot did his best, going straight on
by dead reckoning, but when in another hour they got through it, they
found they had gone a good deal out of their course in a northerly
direction. Tanner swore bitterly, for he found his margin of time was
growing less and less. Finally they picked up the main line of the
Northern Railway, and following it fairly closely, at last saw
creeping up over the horizon the buildings of the capital.

‘Down in ten minutes,’ the pilot roared, and Tanner nodded as he
looked his watch.

It was eleven minutes to twelve, and the Inspector recognised he would
have to run for it. Soon they were above Argenteuil and crossing the
great loops of the Seine, with St Cloud on the right and the vast city
stretching away to the left. Now they were planing rapidly down, till
with a gentle shock they alighted at the edge of the flying ground at
Issy. Tanner leaped out and ran to the entrance as fast as the
stiffness of his legs would allow. As he did so twelve sounded from
the clock towers. He had seventeen minutes, the Gare Quai d’Orsay was
two miles away, and there were no taxis within sight.

There was but one thing to do and Tanner did it. Some private cars
were drawn up on the road just outside the flying ground. Tanner ran
his eye hastily over them and selected one, a racing car from which a
sporting looking man was just descending. The detective hailed him.

‘Sir,’ he panted, ‘I have crossed by aeroplane from England to catch
the 12.17 at the Gare Quai d’Orsay, and now I can’t get a taxi. If you
would run me till we meet a taxi, I just couldn’t say how grateful I’d
be.’

The man looked puzzled.

‘I not speak Engleesh,’ he said slowly, then adding interrogatively,
‘You weesh—aller, aller—go—á la Gare Quai d’Orsay?’

Tanner nodded emphatically, and taking out his watch, ran his finger
from the minute hand, which was now standing at five minutes past the
hour, to seventeen minutes past. The man threw up his left hand to
signify comprehension.

‘Ah, oui,’ he answered. ‘Bon. Montez vite, monsieur. Chomp een.’

Tanner had obeyed the gesture before the man finished speaking, and
the powerful car, swinging round, shot rapidly eastwards along the
quais.

‘Where you—allez—go?’ jerked out the man as they tore along. Tanner
understood.

‘Lisbon,’ he called.

‘Ah, Lisbonne. Oui,’ the man nodded.

Suddenly they came to a great building—Tanner did not know his
Paris—and the car stopped abruptly. The man jumped out followed by his
passenger. As they ran into the concourse of the huge Quai d’Orsay
Station, the hands of the clock pointed to fifteen minutes past
twelve. Two minutes to get the ticket! Without his new friend Tanner
would have been utterly lost. The taking of a ticket seemed a
complicated and interminable affair. But at last it was accomplished,
and Tanner raced for the bridge across the low level tracks. But just
before he reached the inclined plane descending to the platform, the
ticket examiner slammed the gate. There was a voluble outcry from the
sporting man, but for answer the official shrugged his shoulders and
pointed to the roofs of the carriages. The train was already moving.

Once again Tanner swore bitterly, as he gazed at the disappearing
vehicles. But his friend gave him no time for self-commiseration.

‘Vite! Vite!’ he cried, signing to the other to follow him, and
rushing once more out of the station.

They threw themselves into the car, which started off at a furious
pace eastwards. Then Tanner recollected that the terminus of the
Paris-Orleans line had formerly been the Gare d’Austerlitz farther up
the river, the Gare Quai d’Orsay being a new station at the end of a
recently made extension. All trains, he farther remembered having
read, stopped at the Gare d’Austerlitz to enable the electric engine
which worked through the extension tunnel to be replaced by a steam
locomotive. Evidently his friend thought he could overtake the train
at the Austerlitz Station.

And he did—just. After wringing the hand of the man who had taken so
much trouble to help him, he dashed to the platform and climbed into a
carriage as the train began to move.

‘Lord!’ he said to himself as he wiped his forehead, ‘only for that
old sport I’d have missed it.’

Then began a long tedious journey. Though the train was rapid and
luxurious, Tanner was pretty sick of it before he reached his
destination. There was a restaurant car forward, and as they raced
across the sunny country south of Paris, the Inspector did full
justice to an excellent lunch.

After a time he grew wearied by the monotony of the flat lands, but
the scenery became more interesting as they crossed the hills between
Poitiers and Angoulême. Bordeaux was passed about seven o’clock, and
as darkness fell they were traversing the dreary, desolate, sandy
wastes and pine forests of Les Landes.

They reached Irun just before midnight, changing there into the
broad-gauge carriages of Spain, and waiting for customs examination.

The moon rose as they passed through the rocky country north of
Burgos, and it was daylight when they reached the latter town. Then on
again through Valladolid to Medina, where the Madrid portion of the
train branched off; through Salamanca of legendary fame, but now, for
Spain, a considerable railway centre, then into Portugal, where the
train hurtled along at considerably over thirty miles an hour.
Finally, with brakes grinding, they descended the steep incline
tunnelled beneath one of the seven hills on which Lisbon is built, and
pulled up, twenty minutes late, in the Rocio Station.

When Tanner emerged into the brilliantly lighted streets and gazed
down the splendid vista of the Avenida da Liberdade, he literally held
his breath with amazement. The Portuguese he had always looked on as a
lazy, good-for-nothing set, but this great new boulevard made him
reconsider his opinion. He booked a room in the Avenida Palace Hotel,
and then, crossing the Dom Pedro Square, walked down to the steamboat
offices in the Rua da Alfandega.

The office was open—every one seemed to be on the move all night—and
one of the clerks spoke English. The steamer, it appeared, was due
about half-past six. Tanner took the clerk into his confidence, and
the latter made arrangements for the Inspector to get aboard with the
first boat from the shore.

At six o’clock Tanner was down on the Praça do Commercio, admiring in
the brilliant sunlight the splendid river which flowed before him, and
the charming setting of the town on its range of hills. In the river
lay several steamers, some quite large, and all tugging at their
anchors with their bows upstream. Down seawards, but inside the
comparatively narrow mouth of the Tagus, a grey, two-funnelled boat
was coming slowly up—the _Vaal River_—with, as Tanner hoped, William
Douglas on board.

His friend the clerk arriving a moment later, the two men embarked on
a motor launch. As the _Vaal River_’s anchor fell with a mighty
splash, they sheered alongside and made fast.

When the port authorities had gone aboard, Tanner was allowed to
follow. He went straight to the captain, who was still on the bridge,
and showing him his card, explained his business.

‘And so Mr Walter Donnell’s wanted for murder,’ the captain commented.
‘Guess he’s aboard all right. I thought he had something on his mind.
See the chief steward and you’ll find him. What are you going to do
with him?’

‘Take him back to London.’

‘Of course. But how?’

‘I don’t know. What would you advise?’

The captain pointed to a single-funnelled steamer of about 4000 tons
lying not two hundred yards on their port quarter.

‘That’s the _Chrysostom_, a Booth liner, due out in about an hour. If
you take my advice you’ll get aboard and don’t favour the shore with
your presence. I’ll run you over in the launch.’

Tanner thanked the man warmly.

‘Guess that’s all right,’ he answered dryly. ‘I’m as interested in
getting him out of my ship as you are in taking him.’

Finding the chief steward, Tanner explained the matter in hand, adding
that he wished to make the arrest as quietly as possible. The man
seemed mildly interested and promised his help.

Douglas, alias Donnell, was, it appeared, still in his cabin, and the
two went thither. He was in bed, and rose to open the door. When he
saw Tanner his eyes started from his head with amazement, then his jaw
dropped and his face went grey. Stepping quickly back, he collapsed on
to the cabin sofa and sat staring helplessly.

‘William Douglas or Walter Donnell,’ Tanner said solemnly, ‘I arrest
you on a charge of being concerned in the death of the late Sir
William Ponson, of Luce Manor, Halford. I have to warn you that
anything you say will be used against you.’

The man made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘How did you trace me?’ Then, Tanner not
replying, he went on with pitiable earnestness:

‘But you’ve made a mistake. I am innocent. I know the circumstances
look bad, but I’m innocent, I swear it in God’s name.’

‘That will do,’ said Tanner not unkindly. ‘You’ll have every chance to
put yourself right if you can do it. But you’ll have to come back to
London with me. And for your own sake, the less you say the better.’

For a moment the idea of making a desperate resistance seemed to cross
the prisoner’s mind. Then, apparently realising his hopeless position,
he said quietly, ‘I’ll go with you. Let me pack my things.’

Tanner nodded, keeping a keen eye on the other’s movements for fear he
would attempt suicide. But such an idea did not seem to occur to him.
He dressed and packed expeditiously enough, and then said he was ready
to go.

The launch was waiting, and in a few minutes they stood on the deck of
the _Chrysostom_, homeward bound. Presently the anchor was hoisted and
the vessel, swinging round, commenced her 1200 mile trip to Liverpool.

Having explained his business to the captain and seen Douglas securely
locked in a cabin, Tanner stood leaning on the rail of the upper deck,
watching the pleasantly situated town slip slowly astern. He could see
the Cathedral of Belem standing, damaged, just as it was left by the
earthquake of 1755. Then out of the mouth of the river and past the
picturesque pleasure resort of Mont Estoril, with, just beyond it, the
sleepy, old-world village of Cascaes till, rolling easily in the
Atlantic swell, they turned northwards. The Burlings Islands, which
they passed later in the day, were the last land they saw until, on
the third morning, they awoke to find themselves lying in the Mersey.
By midday Tanner and his prisoner were in London.



CHAPTER XIII.

Blackmail?

When Inspector Tanner reached his office in New Scotland Yard, he
found an instruction from Chief Inspector Edgar, informing him that Mr
James Daunt, of Lincoln’s Inn, had important evidence to give him
relative to the Ponson case. Accordingly, after he had made a formal
report on his Portuguese expedition, he called up Jimmy and arranged a
meeting. A few hours later he was seated in the solicitor’s office,
smoking one of the latter’s best cigars.

‘My Chief says you have something to tell me?’ he began, after mutual
greetings.

‘Why yes,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Did your Chief tell you what it was?’

‘Didn’t see him. He’s in Manchester.’

‘I fancy you’ll be surprised. You recollect you told me you had
suspected Cosgrove Ponson, but that he had established an alibi and so
must be innocent?’

Tanner nodded as he drew at his cigar.

‘That’s right,’ he agreed.

‘You were satisfied the alibi was sound?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘It’s a fake,’ said Jimmy quietly.

Tanner took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at the other.

‘Get along now, Mr Daunt,’ he answered. ‘You’re trying to pull my
leg.’

‘No. The thing’s a fake right enough. Cosgrove was at the boathouse
that night.’

Tanner stared incredulously.

‘You seem in earnest,’ he said slowly. ‘But you’ve made a mistake. I
went into it carefully. There’s no doubt it’s sound.’

‘It’s _you_ that have made the mistake,’ Daunt answered pleasantly,
and he went on to tell the Inspector what he and Lois had done, and
all they had discovered.

To say that Tanner was amazed and disappointed would be to understate
the case. He was woefully chagrined.

‘God bless my soul!’ he cried, ‘but that sort of takes a chap down.
Here was I looking down on you and that splendid girl as a pair of
meddling nuisances, and I’m blowed if you haven’t had it over on me
all the time.’

‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘tit for tat.’

The Inspector eyed him almost aggressively.

‘And what now?’ he demanded.

‘Why this. I’ve told you what we did about Cosgrove. Now you tell me
what took you to Portugal.’

‘Oh, that,’ answered Tanner looking relieved. ‘It’s irregular, but I’m
blessed if I care.’ He re-lit his cigar, which in his agitation he had
allowed to go out, and beginning with the day of the adjourned
inquest, he recounted his adventures in London and in Devon, the
midnight run to Southampton, the flight to Paris, the journey to
Lisbon, and finally the arrest of William Douglas. When he had
finished, James Daunt was nearly as surprised and mystified as the
Inspector had been a few minutes earlier.

‘’Pon my soul, a most extraordinary business,’ he commented. ‘There’s
Austin, first suspected, then cleared, then suspected again and
arrested, and now cleared again. Then there’s Cosgrove, first
suspected, then cleared, and now suspected again. And now, here’s a
third man mixed up in the thing. I suppose the next thing that comes
out will clear Douglas!’

‘I don’t think,’ Tanner answered. ‘But what do you mean by saying
Austin is now cleared again? It’s the first I’ve heard of that.’

‘Why, Cosgrove was clearly impersonating him.’

‘Not on your life,’ said Tanner with decision. ‘Mark my words, Mr
Daunt, they were all there—Sir William and Austin and Cosgrove and
Douglas. Every blooming one of them was there. See here,’ he continued
as the other showed signs of dissent, ‘there’s evidence against every
one of them. Sir William was seen there. Austin was seen too, and
there’s no doubt he faked that business about the shoes. Yes, I know,’
as Daunt would have spoken, ‘his story about the shoes seems all
right, and it’s very clever, but it won’t wash. He was seen there, and
he was there. Then Cosgrove was there, for you’ve proved that. And
lastly this man Douglas was there also, for I saw his footmarks on the
boathouse floor. Yes, they were all there, and there’s some conspiracy
between them.’

Though Daunt had to admit this conclusion seemed sound, it was by no
means what he wished the Inspector to arrive at. His business was to
clear Austin, and while the bringing in of first Cosgrove and now this
man Douglas had at the time seemed all to the good, it did not help if
it merely led to a conspiracy charge. But Tanner’s voice broke into
his cogitations.

‘You see,’ the detective said, following on his own line of thought,
‘they were together in London. Sir William, Austin, and Cosgrove
lunched together—_both_ Austin and Cosgrove denying it, mind you—and
then immediately Sir William went to see Douglas. There was some
business between the four of them. There’s not a doubt of it.’

It gave Daunt a nasty shock to recall that Austin had to him also
denied having seen Sir William on that Monday. If it could be proved
that Austin had lied about this, as apparently it could, what reliance
could be placed on any of his other statements?

There was silence for some moments, and then Daunt moved impatiently.

‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ he asked.

‘Get the names of that taxi-man and those other witnesses from you,’
the Inspector answered promptly, ‘and check over your conclusions
about Cosgrove. Not that I doubt you, of course, but it’s business.
Then if I’m satisfied, I’ll arrest him. Among his or Douglas’s papers
there’ll be surely something to put us on the track.’

When Tanner had taken his leave Daunt sat motionless for some minutes,
thinking over what he had just heard. And the more he thought, the
less he liked the turn affairs had taken. All his doubts as to
Austin’s innocence had returned. If his client had really met Sir
William on the Monday in question, why had he denied it? It would take
an even more ingenious explanation to account for it than that he had
given about the shoes.

To satisfy himself, when his work for the day was finished, Daunt put
a photograph of Austin in his pocket and drove to the Étoile
restaurant in Soho. But a few moments’ inquiry was sufficient to
convince him. Austin had been there beyond question, and therefore his
statement to Daunt had been a direct falsehood.

Sorely puzzled as to what he should say to Lois, Jimmy Daunt returned
to his rooms. There after much thought he decided he would see Austin
next morning and tax him directly with the lie.

Another point had been worrying him. He recalled his surprise at the
manner in which Austin had received the news of his and Lois’s
discovery that Cosgrove had been at the boathouse on the fatal night.
Austin had professed incredulity, but all the same had seemed terribly
shocked. He had ridiculed their idea that Cosgrove could have been
impersonating him, and utterly refused to sanction a defence on these
lines.

At the time Daunt had put this down to cousinly affection, but in the
light of Tanner’s theories it seemed to take on a more sinister
interpretation. What if Tanner were right, and both cousins were
involved in the murder? Would not that make a horribly complete
explanation of Austin’s attitude? Might the latter not fear that the
bringing in of Cosgrove might be a step towards the elucidation of the
whole affair? It was therefore with foreboding that Daunt set out next
morning to see his client.

He had determined to try a little test. He conversed at first as on
previous visits, and then when the other’s mind was occupied and he
was off his guard, he said suddenly, but as carelessly as he could,
‘By the way, William Douglas has been arrested.’

The effect on Austin surpassed his most gloomy prognostications.
Surprised out of himself, the accused man started back, his face paled
and he gave vent to an exclamation of what seemed to Daunt to be
veritable consternation. Then rapidly controlling himself, he tried to
simulate indifference.

‘William Douglas?’ he repeated questioningly, ‘I have heard my father
speak of him. An old gardener, wasn’t he? What on earth has he been
doing?’

Daunt felt instinctively the reply did not ring true.

‘That’s what I’ve come to ask you,’ he retorted. ‘What were you and he
doing at the boathouse on that Wednesday night?’

‘My dear fellow,’ Austin answered—he was evidently shaken, but still
spoke with a certain dignity—‘you forget yourself. You have no right
to ask me such a question.’

‘Then I withdraw it and ask you another. You told me, I think, that
the Sunday evening when you dined at Luce Manor was the last occasion
on which you saw Sir William alive?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And you repeat that now?’

‘Why, of course I do.’

Daunt leant forward and spoke impressively.

‘Then how do you explain your having lunched with him on the next day
at the Étoile in Soho?’

Again Austin started. Daunt was sure that the shot had told. But the
other only said:

‘It seems to me you have mistaken the side you’re on. Are you taking
prosecuting counsel’s place?’

‘Good Lord, Ponson, don’t play with words,’ cried the solicitor
angrily. ‘It’s far too serious. If I’m to act for you, I must have an
explanation of these things. Why have you denied being there when you
were?’

‘Who says I was?’

‘Everyone concerned. The manager, two waiters, the porter—all agree.
There’s no mistake. I saw them myself. Tanner knows all about your
lunch there with Sir William and Cosgrove, and about Sir William’s
visit afterwards to Douglas.’

Austin was pale, and a look of positive dread showed for a moment in
his eyes. But he preserved his calmness and only replied:

‘They were mistaken. I was not there.’

Daunt dropped his detached air, and spoke with all the earnestness at
his command.

‘Look here, Ponson,’ he said. ‘What the truth in this wretched
business is I don’t know, but I do know that for you to go on like
this means a certain verdict of “Guilty”. That’s as sure as you’re
sitting there. If you don’t care about yourself, for God’s sake think
of that girl that’s giving up her all for you. You must tell her the
truth—in common honour you must tell her. Your actions must look
suspicious to her as well as others. If you can explain them, for
Heaven’s sake do so, and if not, don’t let her commit herself too far
to get out.’

Austin slowly raised his head and smiled unhappily.

‘You’re a good fellow, Daunt,’ he said. ‘God knows I’m ten times more
anxious for Lois than for myself. But all I can tell you is to repeat
what I have already said; I was not there. There must be some ghastly
mistake.’

Daunt felt his anger rising.

‘It’s a mistake that will cost you your life if you don’t rectify it,’
he answered sharply. ‘If you can’t be open with me I must give up the
case.’

‘Then you don’t believe me?’

‘Believe you? How can I believe you? I show your photograph to four
separate men at that café and all identify you without hesitation. But
see here’—he spoke as if a new idea had occurred to him—‘the thing can
be easily settled. If you weren’t at the café with Sir William where
were you? Tell me that?’

‘I lunched that day at the Savoy.’

‘For three hours?’

‘Well, no. I sat and smoked in the lounge. Then I got one or two
things—tobacco and those two pairs of shoes.’

Jimmy Daunt did not believe him, but all the persuasion of which he
was a master failed to induce Austin, whatever he might or might not
know, to supplement or vary his statement. But the latter consistently
scouted the idea that the trial could end in a conviction, stoutly
maintaining that there was no evidence to lead to such a conclusion.

At last Jimmy took his leave, intensely dissatisfied with the result
of the interview. As had been arranged between them, he sent a wire to
Lois asking her to come to town that afternoon, though he looked
forward to the meeting with anything but pleasure.

It was nearly five when she arrived. He greeted her with no hint that
his news was bad, and as before insisted on an immediate visit to the
quiet restaurant. Over a cup of tea he told her all of Tanner’s
adventures and discoveries, with the single exception of his learning
of the meeting between Sir William, Austin, and Cosgrove at the Étoile
restaurant. But when they had returned to his office, he became more
serious.

‘I’m frightfully sorry, Lois,’ he began, after seeing that she was
comfortably seated, ‘but I haven’t told you all the news yet, and I’m
afraid the rest of it is not too good.’

Her expressive face became clouded and anxious, but she did not speak.
Then Daunt told her as gently as he could of the lunch at the Étoile,
and Tanner’s theories resulting therefrom.

‘But that’s not such bad news,’ she said with evident relief.
‘Inspector Tanner must have made a mistake. Austin said he didn’t see
his father after the Sunday evening.’

Daunt moved uneasily. It was a confoundedly awkward job, and he wished
he was through with it.

‘Dear Lois, it sounds a perfectly horrible thing to say, but that is
just the difficulty. In spite of Austin’s denial, Tanner is convinced
the meeting took place. I believed he was mistaken, so I went down to
the restaurant myself. I took Austin’s photograph, and the manager,
two waiters, and the porter recognised it instantly. All four are
prepared to swear Austin was there.’

‘Did you tell Austin?’

‘Yes. He stuck to his denial.’

Daunt had expected and feared an outbreak from Lois on hearing the
news, but though her face showed extreme pain, she spoke very quietly.

‘There is no reason to suppose the four men in the cafe are dishonest.
They couldn’t have been bought to swear this?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose, but I fear there’s no evidence of it, and
even if it were true, we would never get evidence.’

‘In that case, as Austin wasn’t there, they must have been mistaken.’

She looked steadily in Jimmy’s eyes as if challenging him to contest
her statement. He marvelled at the faith a good woman will show in the
man she loves, and he felt if Austin had by word or deed deceived her,
hanging would be too good for him. He hesitated in replying, and she
went on:

‘You understand what I mean? Austin was supposed to have been seen at
the boathouse, and as he wasn’t there we deduced an impersonator. We
find, in my opinion, the same thing here—probably the same man.’

‘In the boathouse case we imagined Cosgrove was the impersonator. Here
it could not be Cosgrove, as he was present also.’

She nodded.

‘That is true certainly. Tell me honestly, Jimmy, what you think
yourself.’

Jimmy hedged.

‘It’s not what I think, Lois, or for the matter of that, what you
think, or even what Tanner thinks; it’s what the jury will think; and
as you’ve asked me the direct question, I must tell you I greatly fear
they will disbelieve Austin.’

‘I fear so too,’ she answered quietly. He felt she was conscious he
had not answered her question, and was thankful she was going to let
it pass. But his relief was shortlived.

‘You thought he was’—she hesitated for a moment—‘not telling you all
he might?’

Jimmy hated doing business in opposition to a clever woman. Again and
again he had found that except for their own purposes they seldom
considered either his words or actions, but always his quite private
and secret thoughts. He realised that Lois knew exactly what was in
his mind regarding Austin.

‘To be strictly truthful,’ he answered, ‘I admit he did give me the
impression that he was holding something back. But of course it was
only an impression, and I may have been wrong.’

She nodded slowly and then said, ‘I think, Jimmy, I must see him
myself.’

This was what her cousin had feared, and he felt he must exert all his
powers of diplomacy to prevent it.

‘Well, you know, Lois,’ he answered truthfully, ‘I had that in my
mind. I hardly liked to suggest it. But undoubtedly if he does know
anything, he would tell you when he mightn’t tell me.’

She looked at him in unveiled surprise, but only said:

‘Can you arrange an interview for tomorrow?’

‘I would try if you thought that would be best. But I was going to
suggest waiting until Tanner has investigated the affairs of Douglas.
He believes, and I agree with him, that there was some private
business between Douglas and Sir William, which, if we knew it, would
clear up the whole affair.’

‘Ah,’ said Lois comprehendingly.

‘If Austin,’ Jimmy went on desperately, ‘is really holding anything
back, we may take it he has a good reason for doing so. Unless it
becomes really necessary—and it has not, so far—it would be better not
to try to force his confidence. He will tell us when he thinks it
right.’

‘Really, Jimmy,’ Lois smiled faintly, ‘you are quite coming on. I
don’t say you have persuaded me, but I will agree to postpone my
visit—shall we say for a week?’

‘When Tanner returns from Devonshire I shall see him, and let you know
his report immediately,’ returned the relieved but suspicious Daunt.

They continued discussing the affair for some time. Jimmy could see
that in spite of the brave face Lois put on things, she was deeply
worried and despondent. Never had he admired her more. He marvelled at
her belief in Austin, her assurance that he, Jimmy, was doing the
utmost possible, her fairness to Tanner, and her utter and absolute
forgetfulness of herself. As he saw her to the train he felt his
resolution strengthened, to spare himself neither time nor money to
bring about the result she desired.


When Tanner left Daunt’s office on the previous day, he returned at
once to the Yard. First he arranged for Cosgrove to be shadowed, in
case that gentleman, learning of Douglas’s arrest, might consider
discretion the better part of valour and disappear. Then he busied
himself in re-examining the witnesses of Cosgrove’s movements on the
night of the murder, which the efforts of Lois and Daunt had
unearthed. When he had heard their statements he had to admit himself
convinced of the cousin’s duplicity.

After a consultation with his chief a warrant was issued, and Tanner
went to the flat in Knightsbridge and executed it. When cautioned,
Cosgrove made no statement beyond earnestly and emphatically
protesting his innocence, and declaring that a terrible mistake had
been made.

A detailed search of the flat revealed one or two things which Tanner
had not already known. As he had suspected on the occasion of his
first visit, Cosgrove had a second desk for his more private papers.
In the dressing-room was an old Sheraton escritoire, and there the
Inspector found complete information about his prisoner’s finances.
The latter appeared even more involved than Tanner had suspected,
which of course strengthened the motive for the murder, and therefore
the case against the accused.

But this was not all. The motive had been stronger than any merely
financial embarrassment could have made it. In the same desk was a
bundle of letters from the actress at the Follies, Miss Betty Belcher.
These showed that Cosgrove’s relations with her had been extremely
intimate. For a considerable time he had evidently been pressing her
to marry him, and in one letter, dated about three weeks before Sir
William’s death, she had openly admitted she loved him and would marry
him if only he were rich. ‘You know, Cos.,’ the rather cynical letter
went on, ‘it would be absurd for me to think of marrying a poor man. I
have been too long accustomed to all that money gives to contemplate
any other kind of life. If you had a fortune—well, I might consider
it, but as things are you must see it would be out of the question.’

‘He must have been far gone to want to marry her after that,’ mused
Tanner, ‘but he evidently did, for here a week later is another letter
in the same strain.’

He filed the papers in the Cosgrove dossier, from which they duly
found their way into the hands of the public prosecutor.

The next item on Tanner’s list was a similar search in Douglas’s
cottage, and on this business the detective found himself once more
seated in the 10.30 a.m. from Paddington, on his second journey to
Devonshire.

He thought he was beginning to get some kind of grasp of the case. It
was evident that Austin and Cosgrove, separately and individually, had
each the two strongest motives known to weak humanity for desiring Sir
William Ponson’s death. In each case there was the direct want of
money. But in each case also, to this crude desire was added the more
subtle and infinitely more powerful consideration that the money was
for the loved one. Neither man could accomplish the marriage upon
which he had set his heart, and live afterwards in the way he wished,
without more money, and by Sir William’s death this money could alone
be obtained.

So much was obvious, but the facts seemed to permit a further
conclusion. Suppose these two, knowing of each other’s position, had
conspired together to commit the crime which would relieve the
necessities of both? In some way not yet clear they had lured Sir
William to the boathouse, met him there, committed the murder, and
arranged the matter of the boat to create the impression of accident.
In case suspicion should be aroused, each had worked out a false but
ingenious alibi.

Tanner felt himself so far on fairly firm ground, but when he came to
consider Douglas and the part he had played in the affair, he had to
confess himself absolutely at sea. However, the search on which he was
now engaged might throw some light on that.

He reached Yelverton at the same time as on his first visit, and went
at once to the police station. The sergeant had got together some
information for him. Douglas, it appeared, had come to the
neighbourhood some seven years previously from, the sergeant believed,
New York. He had taken a ten-year lease of Myrtle Cottage, had engaged
an elderly housekeeper who was still with him, and had settled down to
a quiet existence of gardening and bee farming. That he had some money
was obvious, but he was not well off, and seemingly had at first found
it difficult to make ends meet. But during the last four years his
prospects appeared to have improved, as he had carried out a number of
alterations to the house, had purchased a small car, and generally
seemed to have taken things more easily. The sergeant, after Tanner
had left on the day of the attempted arrest, had made a careful search
of the house, but without finding anything suspicious. He had then
admitted the housekeeper, who had been visiting friends in Princetown,
and she had been living there since. Douglas had not borne a very
lofty reputation in the neighbourhood. He was morose and ill-tempered,
and drank more than was good for him. But he kept himself to himself
and there had been no open disputes with his neighbours.

So much Tanner knew when he reached the house to conduct his own
examination.

A lengthy interrogation of the housekeeper led to nothing fresh. And
then began another of those exhaustive searches to which Tanner was so
well accustomed, and which always bored him so exceedingly.

He found nothing of interest till he came to examine Douglas’s papers,
but from them he learned a good deal of the man’s life. Douglas had
been, it was evident, a clerk in the Pennsylvania Railroad Terminal in
New York, there being letters on railway paper and photographs of
groups of employees, as well as a testimonial from the head of the
office. This was dated seven years earlier, and referred to Douglas’s
service of twenty-one years. The man must therefore have held the
position since 1892. Of his life since settling in Devonshire there
were records, principally connected with bee-keeping, but of his
history before his connection with the Pennsylvania Railroad Tanner
could discover nothing.

‘He is surely either an Englishman or a wonderful mimic,’ thought the
Inspector, as he recalled the north-country accent with which the man
had spoken on the day of his bolt for liberty.

The search dragged on, and at last, as it was nearly concluded, Tanner
made three finds, though none of them seemed of much value. The first
was that when examining with a mirror the blotting paper on Douglas’s
desk, he saw that an envelope had been addressed to Sir William
Ponson. Unfortunately, in spite of his careful efforts he could trace
nothing of the letter presumably sent therein, but the marks were a
still further proof of the relations which had obtained between the
two men.

The second discovery appeared at first sight of even less importance,
and Tanner noted it principally as being the only thing he had yet
come on which, it seemed possible, might refer to Douglas’s early
life. In an old and apparently little used book on American passenger
rates, the leaves of which the Inspector was painfully turning over in
the hope that some old letter might lie therein concealed, he came on
a photograph. Evidently of considerable age, it was faded to a light
brown and discoloured as if at some time it had been wet. It was a
view of a tombstone and grave with a building—presumably the porch of
a church—in the background. A lich-gate showed in the farther
distance, while on the stone the inscription appeared as dark, broken
lines, the only word decipherable being the first—‘Sacred.’ Tanner put
the photograph in his pocket with the idea that this might represent
Douglas’s family burying ground, which, if traceable, might throw
light on his birthplace. At the same time he felt that such
information, even if obtainable, could not help much in his quest.

The third find was that in an engagement book or diary there was a
reference to the visit to London, and to certain calls to be paid
there. On the space for the Thursday before the murder was written
‘London, 10.25 train, Judd’s Hotel, Dunlop Street.’ On the next space,
for Friday, was an entry, ‘Insurance Co., 77B Gracechurch St.’ There
was a list of articles—probably purchases—‘Collars, handkerchiefs,
_The Apiarist_, by S. Wilson Holmes,’ and some other items. Last, but
not least, for the evening of the murder there was ‘X—9.30 p.m.’

This last entry set Tanner puzzling. ‘X,’ he presumed, stood for the
Luce Manor boathouse, and its use seemed to show the same desire for
secrecy about his visit there as had been noticeable with the others
who had been present. But Tanner had to confess that this entry did
not square with the theory that the murder had been its object—at
least on Douglas’s part. It was inconceivable that a man about to
commit such a crime should have required a reminder of the hour of the
deed. Every detail of the plan would have been seared into his brain.
Was the suggestion of this entry, wondered the Inspector, not that
Douglas had been made a tool of by the cousins? If the man should make
that case this would certainly be corroborative evidence. Tanner
attached some weight to the point, as he felt it was too subtle to
have been designed.

Having seen from the papers that Douglas had an account in the
Plymouth branch of the Western Counties Bank, Tanner next day called
on the manager. Here, after a study of the accused’s finances, he made
an interesting discovery. At intervals during the last four years
Douglas had lodged sums of money—invariably in notes, so he was
told—and what particularly intrigued the Inspector’s imagination was
the fact that each such lodgment had taken place a few days after the
drawing of an ‘X’ cheque by Sir William Ponson, and in each case it
was for just a trifle less than the amount of that cheque. It seemed
evident that Sir William had been paying Douglas these sums, and the
method of lodging showed the latter equally eager to keep the
transactions secret. What service, mused Tanner, could Douglas have
possibly done Sir William to have merited such a return?

It was an anxious and disappointed Inspector who that afternoon
stepped into the London train at Millbay Station, Plymouth. He had
been hoping for great things from his search of Douglas’s rooms, and
he had found practically nothing—only an old photograph and the
address of an insurance company in London. And neither of these seemed
the slightest use. Could anything be learned by tracing that tombstone
or calling at that insurance office? He did not think so.

But more than once he had learnt the folly of neglecting any clue, no
matter how slight. Therefore on arrival in London he prepared a
circular to be sent to every police station in England. It bore a
reproduction of the photograph, together with a paragraph asking if
the recipient could identify the place and send in a note of its
whereabouts, as well as a copy of the inscription on the tombstone.

Next morning he set out for 77B Gracechurch Street.

A suite of offices on the second floor of a large building bore the
legend ‘The Associated Insurance Company, Limited,’ and Tanner,
entering, asked for the manager. After a short delay he was shown into
the presence of a tall, gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and tired
looking eyes. Tanner introduced himself as an Inspector from the Yard.

‘I have called, sir,’ he went on, ‘with reference to a man named
William Douglas, a small, elderly man with a grey beard, who lives
near Yelverton in Devon. I understand that he has had some dealings
recently with your Company. I imagine, but am not certain, that he
came here on Friday, the 2nd of July last.’

‘I cannot recall the man myself,’ the manager returned. ‘What is the
precise point in question?’

‘We have had to arrest him on a serious charge—in fact, that of
murder. I am endeavouring to trace his recent history and movements. I
want to know if he did call, and if so, on what business.’

The manager pressed twice a button on his desk. An elderly clerk
answered.

‘Mr Jones, do you recall our doing any business recently with a man
called William Douglas from Devonshire?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied. ‘We were in correspondence about an
annuity, but the matter fell through.’

‘This gentleman is Mr Tanner, an Inspector from Scotland Yard. You
might let him have all the particulars he wants.’ Then to Tanner, ‘If,
sir, you will go with Mr Jones, he will tell you everything he can.’

Mr Jones led the way to a smaller office, and waved his visitor to a
chair.

‘William Douglas?’ he said, bending over a vertical file. ‘Here we
are, Mr Tanner.’

He withdrew a folder, and settling himself at his desk, took out some
papers.

‘Here is the first letter. You will see it is an application from
William Douglas of Myrtle Cottage, Yelverton, South Devon, for
particulars of annuities. He wanted to purchase one which would bring
him in £500 a year. Here is our reply enclosing the information and a
form for him to fill in, and here is the form which he returned to us
duly filled. You will notice he is aged sixty-six. We then wrote him
this letter explaining that the annuity would cost him £4600, and
asking his further instructions. He replied, as you see, to proceed
with the matter, and he would send on the cheque in due course. We
prepared the necessary documents, but received no further
communication from Mr Douglas until about ten days later we had this
note stating that he regretted the trouble he had given, but that he
found himself unable to proceed with the matter at present. And so it
stands.’

‘Then Douglas didn’t call here?’

‘No.’

Tanner was considerably puzzled by this information. As he walked
slowly along the Embankment back to the Yard, he racked his brains to
understand Douglas’s motive or plan. What had been the ex-clerk’s
idea? The figures of his bank account showed that at no time since he
came to live at Yelverton had he had more than £600 to his credit. As
he could not possibly have paid the four thousand odd himself, where
did he expect to raise it?

And then a sudden idea flashed into the Inspector’s mind. Sir William
Ponson had been paying Douglas sums ranging from £100 to £400 at
intervals during the last four years. These sums were all paid by
cheques marked ‘X’ on the block. On the day before his death Sir
William had written an ‘X’ cheque for £3000. This cheque had never
been cashed.

Was there not a connection? Had that £3000 ‘X’ cheque of Sir William’s
not been written for the purpose of paying for Douglas’s annuity? It
certainly looked like it. And had the sudden death of Sir William not
prevented its being cashed?

Of course, the amounts did not tally—the cheque was for £3000, while
the price of the annuity was £4600. But it was obvious that these sums
might represent the different opinions the two men held of what was
due. Possibly also negotiations were in progress between them on the
point. This was of course guesswork, but at least it would explain the
facts.

The Inspector walked like a man in a dream as he concentrated his
thoughts on the whole circumstances. There seemed just one link of his
chain missing—some one point which, if he could find it, would flood
the whole of these mysterious happenings with light and make the
disconnected facts he had learnt fall into their places like the
closing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And then suddenly he wondered if he
had not got it, as another and more sinister idea occurred to him.

What if the business were blackmail? It had a nasty enough look. Could
Douglas have got hold of something discreditable in Sir William’s
life, and could the latter be paying for his silence?

The more Tanner thought over it, the more likely this theory seemed.
It would explain the facts generally, as well as the secrecy with
which both parties had acted. And yet there were difficulties. This
annuity business was a difficulty. From Douglas’s point of view it was
easy enough to understand. If the blackmailer thought his receipts
were precarious, or if time was reducing or about to reduce the value
of the secret, it would be a natural step for him to try to convert
his vanishing doles into a fixed and certain income. But Sir William’s
motive would be different. His only hold on the preservation of his
secret was the expectation on Douglas’s part of sums yet to be paid.
If the manufacturer agreed to the annuity his hold would be gone. That
he should do so was inconceivable to Tanner. And yet apparently he
had. He had at least written the £3000 cheque.

But the second difficulty to the blackmail theory was more serious.
The wrong man had been murdered! If Douglas had been the victim it
would have fitted in well enough. It would have been argued that Sir
William had taken a desperate remedy to escape from an intolerable
situation. But Sir William’s death would have been the last thing
Douglas could have desired. He would never have cut off the source of
his income. No; attractive as the blackmail theory had seemed at
first, Tanner found its difficulties rather overwhelming.

He had by this time reached the Yard, and sitting down at his desk, he
lit a cigar, and continued his ruminations.

Suppose again that blackmail had been levied, where did Austin and
Cosgrove come in? They must in this case obviously have taken sides.
Either they must have been assisting Sir William to extricate himself,
or else they must have been party to the blackmail.

But as Tanner pondered these alternatives, he could not see how either
would meet the facts. If the cousins were acting for their relative,
they obviously would not have murdered him—it was a contradiction in
terms. Here again the wrong man had been killed.

On the other hand, it was difficult to see how they could have been in
league with Douglas against Sir William. Anything discreditable to the
manufacturer would react on both the son and nephew, and their threat
to make the matter public would therefore hardly be convincing. For
their own sakes the cousins would be as anxious as Sir William to keep
the thing quiet. It was also clear to Tanner that they would never
have put themselves in the power of a man like Douglas. If they had
wished to murder Sir William for his money, they would have done so at
some time when Douglas would not have witnessed the crime.

So far had Tanner progressed when he realised his argument really was
that Sir William could not have been murdered at all! He swore
angrily, and went back to see the point from which he had started.
Blackmail. It would seem, then, that blackmail could not be the
explanation. And yet . . . It was an attractive theory . . .

Some days later, rather to Tanner’s surprise, he received from a
sergeant of police in the north of England an answer to his circular
about the photograph. It read:

  ‘Sir: We have found the churchyard illustrated in your view
  attached. It belongs to the Parish Church of Tynwick, a village six
  miles south-east of Gateshead. The headstone is still standing. It
  bears the inscription—“Sacred to the memory of John Dale, aged 53,
  who departed this life on 4th September 1871, and of Eleanor, his
  beloved wife, who entered into rest on 25th March 1890, at the age
  of 67.”’

‘Gateshead? Dale?’ thought the Inspector. ‘Those names sound
familiar.’

He turned to his notes of the case. And then he got rather a thrill.
Gateshead was the place from which Sir William had come to Luce Manor.
It was there the deceased gentleman had been born and had spent his
life, and where the ironworks he had owned was situated.

And Dale? This was more interesting still. Dale was the name of his
wife’s first husband! He had married a Mrs Ethel Dale. Here at last
was a connection between the manufacturer and William Douglas.

But after all was it not a very slender one? What exactly did it
amount to? That Douglas had in his possession a photograph of the
grave of a man and woman of the same name as Lady Ponson’s first
husband, and who lived somewhere in the same locality. Not much to go
upon, and yet it was suggestive, and where there had been nothing
before, Tanner welcomed it eagerly. Who knew what it mightn’t lead to?
He determined he must go to Tynwick and make inquiries.



CHAPTER XIV.

A Dramatic Discovery

The shades of evening were falling when Inspector Tanner reached
Newcastle. He had not been favoured with his usual travelling weather.
For the first time since he started work on the Ponson case, the skies
had remained all day grey and leaden, and the rain had poured
ceaselessly and hopelessly down. It had not been possible to open the
carriage windows, and he was tired from so long breathing the stuffy
atmosphere of the train.

It was too late to do anything that night, but the next morning, which
fortunately was fine, he took the train to Tynwick. It was a village
of about five hundred inhabitants, an attractive little place, with
pleasant creeper-covered cottages, separated from the road by narrow
gardens, all ablaze with colour. In the centre was the church, and
strolling slowly into the churchyard, Tanner had no difficulty in
identifying the spot from which the photograph had been taken. As the
sergeant had said, the headstone was still standing, and Tanner paused
and re-read the inscription of which he already had received a copy.

Close by the churchyard and connected with it by a gate in the
dividing wall, stood an old, grey stone house—evidently the vicarage.
Tanner pushed open the gate, and walking slowly up to the door,
knocked.

‘Could I see the vicar for a few moments?’ he asked courteously, as
the door was opened by a trim maid.

He was shown into a comfortable study, and there after a few moments
he was joined by an elderly man, clean shaven, white haired, and
kindly looking.

‘Good morning,’ said the latter. ‘You wished to see me?’

Tanner rose and bowed.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, ‘for a moment.’

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ His host waved him to an arm-chair and seated
himself at his desk.

‘My business, sir,’ went on Tanner, ‘is, I expect, of a rather unusual
kind for you to deal with. My name is Tanner—Inspector Tanner of New
Scotland Yard, and I have come to ask your kind help in obtaining some
information of which I am in need.’

If the clergyman was surprised he did not show it.

‘And what is the nature of the information?’ he asked.

Tanner took the photograph from his pocket.

‘We have had,’ he explained, ‘to arrest a man on suspicion of a
serious crime—murder, in fact. The only clue to his antecedents we
have is this photograph. You will see it represents part of your
churchyard, and the headstone in the foreground is in memory of John
Dale and his wife, Eleanor. We thought if we could find out something
about these Dales, it might help us.’

‘Is Dale the name of your suspect?’

‘No, sir, he is called Douglas, but of course that may not be his real
name.’

The clergyman thought for a few moments.

‘I fear I cannot tell you very much,’ he said at last. ‘When I came
here thirteen years ago there was no one of that name in the parish. I
do remember hearing of the family you mention, but they had moved some
years previously.’

‘You don’t know to where?’

‘Unfortunately I do not.’

‘Perhaps, sir, some of your remaining parishioners could tell me?’

‘That’s what I was going to suggest.’ The clergyman again paused.
‘There is a family called Clayton living close by, gentlemen farmers,
who have been here for generations. Old Mr Clayton is well over
seventy, but still remains hale and hearty—a wonderful man for his
age. I should think that if anyone could give you your information, he
could. He’ll probably be at home now, and if you like, I’ll go down
with you and introduce you.’

‘I should be more than grateful.’

‘Come then,’ said the vicar, leading the way.

The Claytons lived on the outskirts of the village in a charming
little creeper-covered house, standing in small but perfectly kept
grounds. As the two men passed up the rose-bordered path to the door,
they were hailed from the lawn behind. An old gentleman with a full
white beard, a grey felt hat, and a tweed suit was approaching.

‘Mornin’, vicar,’ he cried cheerily.

‘How are you, Mr Clayton? Beautiful morning. Can we have a word with
you?’

‘Delighted, I’m sure. Come in here. It’s always better out of doors
than in, eh, Vicar?’

He shook hands with the clergyman, and turned expectantly to Tanner.

‘May I introduce Mr Tanner? Mr Tanner has just called with me in
search of some information which I unfortunately was unable to give
him, but which I thought you possibly might.’

‘I had better introduce myself more fully, Mr Clayton,’ said Tanner.
‘I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I am trying to trace
a family named Dale, who, I understand, formerly lived here.’

Mr Clayton led the way to a delightfully situated arbour, and waved
his guests to easy chairs, but the vicar excused himself on the ground
that his part in the affair was complete. On his departure Tanner
produced the photograph and explained his business to his host.

‘The Dales? Yes, I knew them well. They lived at the other end of the
village for many years, until indeed John Dale, the father, died. Then
they moved into Gateshead. They weren’t left too well off, I’m afraid.
But I don’t know that any of them are alive now.’

‘What did the family consist of?’

‘The mother and two sons. She died some years after her husband—you
have the date on your inscription.’

‘And can you tell me anything about the sons?’

‘Yes, I remember them well. They were very like each other—good
looking, with taking manners, well dressed and all that, but a couple
of rotters at heart. They were always out for what they could get, and
there was drink and gambling and worse. When they cleared out they
weren’t much loss.’

‘Place too hot to hold them?’

‘In Edward’s case, I think so. Edward was the younger. He was in debt
heavily, I know, and he slipped off quietly one night to the States,
and was never heard of again.’

‘And the other?

‘The elder brother, Tom, was a bad lot too. He had a tragic end. He
was drowned. But I don’t think anyone mourned for him. He had
well-nigh broken his young wife’s heart in the three years they were
married.’

Tanner was like a bloodhound on a hot scent. This was very
interesting. He remembered that Sir William Ponson had married a Mrs
Dale from this part of the country, whose husband had been drowned on
his way to Canada. It looked like as if the Tom Dale of whom Mr
Clayton had been speaking might have been this man.

‘What was the business of the Dale brothers?’ he asked.

‘They were both in the same firm—the Eagle Ironworks. You know it
maybe—in Gateshead? It was Peter Howard’s then. I remember young
Ponson joining it—poor fellow, he’s gone now—it was he that made it.
When he started as office boy there was just one small shed and about
a dozen men, and now it’s a company employing over a thousand hands. A
wonderful change.’

‘Wonderful indeed, Mr Clayton.’

‘Ay. A man of my years can look back over great changes. That’s more
than a young fellow like you can do, eh, Mr Tanner?’

‘It’s true, sir. And you say Tom was drowned?’

‘Yes. He got a sudden call. He was in the _Numidian_. You wouldn’t
remember about her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No, it would be before your time. A terrible business it was. The
_Numidian_ was a big boat, big for those times, I mean. She was
running from Glasgow to Quebec, and she struck a berg. Went down off
the banks in a few minutes. Nearly every soul on board was lost, and
Tom Dale was one of them. A sudden call, it was.’

‘A terrible affair. I do remember hearing of it.’

‘Ay, no doubt. A sudden call for Tom, that it was.’

‘You said he nearly broke a good woman’s heart, Mr Clayton?’

‘Ay, and so he did. Little Ethel Osborne was fool enough to marry him.
And it wasn’t long till she was sorry for it. They say she saw him
drunk for the first time the night after the wedding. But it wasn’t
the last, not by a long chalk. He was a bad boy all through, was Tom.’

‘Then his death must have been something of a release to her?’

‘Yes, poor soul. But she had more sense the second time.’

‘The second time?’

‘Ay, she did what she ought to have done at the start—married young
William Ponson.’

‘Never neglect the smallest clue!’ thought Tanner triumphantly, as he
recalled his doubt of the wisdom of following up the photograph. The
connection between Douglas and Sir William was strengthening.
Doubtless he was on the right track at last, and maybe if he
questioned him skilfully, this old man would let something drop which
would give away the secret.

Mr Clayton was glad to talk—the old gentleman seemed lonely—and
presently the whole story came out. Substantially it was the same as
that Tanner had already heard from Mr Arbuthnot, the late
manufacturer’s lawyer. Mr Clayton told of William Ponson’s start in
life as office-boy in the Eagle Ironworks of John Howard; of his rapid
rise to the position, first of manager, then partner, and finally of
sole owner; of his taking his brother John, Cosgrove’s father, into
the concern; of their extraordinary prosperity; of William’s municipal
life, culminating in his knighthood, and of John’s death, followed by
Sir William’s sale of the business, and retirement to Luce Manor.

With all of this Tanner was familiar, but he found Mr Clayton was able
to give him rather more details of the manufacturer’s family affairs
than he had yet learnt.

It seemed that when the deceased knight was aged seven-and-twenty, he
had fallen deeply in love with a Miss Ethel Osborne, the daughter of a
Gateshead doctor. Miss Osborne was a pretty, though not very brilliant
girl of some twenty summers, with a placid, pleasure-loving
disposition, and a little money. The Dale brothers at this time held
positions in the firm, Tom, the elder being a traveller, and his
brother Edward a clerk. Tom was a handsome youth with rather
fascinating manners. He was considerably below middle height, had
delicate features, small and beautifully shaped hands and feet, and
dark, passionate eyes.

When William Ponson began to press his attentions on Ethel Osborne, he
soon found he had a rival in Tom Dale. For a long time the young lady
was unable to decide between her two admirers. For Ponson she had more
respect, and she felt that as his wife she would have an assured
position and a comfortable home. But Ponson was ‘stodgy.’ His thoughts
were centred in his work, and his own advancement, and he had forsworn
that lighter side of life—theatres, dances, excursions—which the young
girl found so attractive. With Dale she believed her prospects might
be less secure, but life would certainly be pleasanter. He seemed to
understand her, and respond to her moods better than the other, and he
was a delightful companion. And who shall blame her if she sacrificed
material prosperity to the joy of life, rather, who shall not praise
her?

In due time she married Dale, and at once, on the very self-same day,
her disillusionment began. That night, as has already been mentioned,
he returned drunk to the Scottish hotel at which they were to spend
the honeymoon. And that was only the first occasion of many. Soon she
learned of an entanglement with a barmaid which had been going on at
the very time of the wedding. It was not long before their numerous
quarrels led to an open rupture, and Dale made no secret to his wife
of the fact that he had married her for her money. Matters went from
bad to worse, till debt began to fasten on them its horrid shackles,
and ruin stared them in the face. The one alleviating circumstance was
that there had been no children from the marriage.

All this William Ponson watched, grieving for Ethel, but of course
helpless. Then it became necessary for the firm to send a
representative to Canada, and the choice fell on their traveller, Tom
Dale. Whether or not Ponson had any say in this decision was not
known, but at all events Dale sailed for Quebec in the _Numidian_. As
will be remembered, the vessel was lost off the coast of Newfoundland,
a mere handful of her complement being saved. Dale’s name was amongst
the lost. Ethel Dale therefore found herself not only without assets,
but called upon to meet a considerable crop of debts. Her father
having died since her marriage, she was thus absolutely destitute.

It was believed to be owing to William Ponson’s efforts that a small
pension was granted her by the firm, and the debts were wiped out by a
presentation from some of the employees. She took a small house, and
by letting rooms contrived to make a living.

William Ponson, though he had acted throughout in a strictly
honourable manner, had never ceased to love Ethel. He bided his time
for over two years, then, calling on the widow, he told her of his
love and boldly pressed his suit. She then realised that she had loved
him all along, and though at first she refused to consider his
proposal, his steady insistence wore down her opposition and in 1887,
five years after he had first loved her, he obtained his desire, and
they were married. The trouble through which she had passed had
profoundly modified her character, sobering her and bringing out all
that was best in her, and her life with William Ponson, though quiet,
had been truly happy. Two children were born, Austin and Enid.

‘And you said the other Dale went to the States, I think?’ asked
Tanner, when he had learnt the above facts.

‘Edward? Yes, he got into difficulties too. He was a born gambler. He
was owing money everywhere, and the place got too hot for him. He went
to the States shortly after Tom was married.’

Tanner felt he had done well. Almost first shot he had found this Mr
Clayton and obtained information which must prove of the utmost value.
But he had stayed chatting to and pumping the old man for an
unconscionable time, and he began to express his thanks, preparatory
to taking his leave. And then an idea flashed into his mind, and he
sat motionless for some moments, thinking.

‘What was the Dale brother, Edward, like in appearance?’ he asked,
trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

‘Like enough to his brother Tom, but not so good looking, nor with
such good manners by a long chalk. But passably well looking for all
that.’

‘But was he a small man?’

‘Small? Ay, that he was—like Tom. Both were small men.’

Could it be? Edward Dale, a little man with small hands and feet,
knowing all about William Ponson’s youth—knowing probably a good deal
more than Mr Clayton had told or perhaps knew—Edward Dale, a clerk,
had gone to America and disappeared. William Douglas, a little man
with small hands and feet, and apparently knowing intimate facts about
Sir William Ponson—William Douglas, a clerk, had come from America,
his youthful history being unknown. Could they be one and the same?

The more Tanner thought over this theory, the more likely it seemed.
As he sat smoking with Mr Clayton in the pleasant garden, he went over
in his mind all that he had learnt of each man, and was unable to
recall anything inconsistent with the hypothesis.

But how could he test it? He must make sure. But how?

There was of course one obvious possibility. Mr Clayton, if confronted
with Douglas, might recognise him as Edward Dale. Or Douglas might
recognise Mr Clayton, and so give himself away. It was not a
certainty, but it would be worth trying. The Inspector turned to his
host.

‘I believe, sir,’ he said, ‘that if I told you just what was troubling
me, you might be able to help me out, if you would. I was asking you
about Edward Dale, but I did not tell you much about the man we
arrested. In the first place, Douglas, as he says his name is, came to
England from New York, where he was employed as a clerk in the
Pennsylvania Railway for several years. We have traced his movements
back to 1892, previous to which we can discover nothing whatever about
him. Now, you tell me Edward Dale left for the States about the year
1882, and has since been lost sight of. That is coincidence Number
One.’

Mr Clayton nodded without speaking. He was listening with eager
attention.

‘Next,’ continued Tanner, ‘I did not tell you whose murder the man
Douglas was suspected of. It was that of Sir William Ponson.’

‘God bless my soul!’ cried the other, ‘you don’t say so? A terrible
affair that. And you think you’ve got the man, do you? All I can say
is, I’d like to see him hanged.’

‘It seems clear from various things,’ Tanner went on, ‘that the
trouble originated before Douglas went to America. Now Edward Dale
knew Sir William in those days. That is coincidence Number Two.’

‘You said, I think, that Douglas’s history could not be traced before
he became a clerk in the Pennsylvania Railway? How then do you know he
left England prior to that?’

‘We don’t absolutely know, but we think it for two reasons: first, he
can speak with a North of England accent, and secondly, that in an old
book of his we found the photograph of the Dales’ grave.’

The other nodded.

‘That photograph,’ continued Tanner, ‘is coincidence Number Three. Few
men would have such a photograph unless it represented something
connected with their own families. And coincidence Number Four, Mr
Clayton, is this. Douglas is a very short man with very small hands
and feet.’

‘God bless my soul!’ Mr Clayton exclaimed again. ‘But this is most
interesting. Go on, Mr Tanner.’

‘Well, sir, that leads me up to a very obvious question. You must have
guessed it. You have known Dale intimately in the past; could you
identify him now?

Tanner sat back in his chair and drew at his cigar. The other did not
answer for a moment. Then as he slowly refilled his pipe, he said
hesitatingly:

‘I hardly like to say. Thirty-eight years is a long time, and a man
might change a lot during it. I think I would recognise Edward if I
saw him, but I couldn’t be sure.’

‘Then, sir, my second question follows naturally. Will you come up to
London and try?’

The other smiled.

‘It’s a long journey for a man of my years,’ he said, ‘but I imagine I
have no choice. You Scotland Yard people are so autocratic.’

Tanner smiled in his turn.

‘If you will come at our expense, sir, you will confer a great favour
on us. Do you prefer day or night travel?’

‘Day. When would you like me to go?’

‘The sooner the better, sir. Tomorrow, if it would be convenient.’

‘One day is much like another to me. I will go tomorrow, if you like.’

They sat on for some time longer smoking and chatting. In spite of his
years Mr Clayton’s mind remained active and vigorous, and he had kept
himself well abreast of recent events. He evidently enjoyed exchanging
ideas with the Inspector, and the latter exerted himself to entertain
the old gentleman, relating several of the adventures he had met with
in his professional career.

In the afternoon Tanner called at the Eagle Works. But there he got no
help. The firm’s official records did not go back far enough to
include the Dales’ names, and none of the office staff recalled the
brothers’ affairs.

On the following day the Inspector and Mr Clayton travelled up to town
together, and the former saw his new friend to an hotel. The interview
with Douglas was to take place next morning.

Inspector Tanner delighted in a dramatic situation, especially when he
was the _deus ex machina_. In the present instance he thought he was
sufficiently sure of his ground to risk an audience. After consulting
his chief, he accordingly rang up James Daunt.

‘I think I am on to a clue at last,’ he said. ‘As you and Miss Drew
are interested and have helped so much I will stretch a point from
strict etiquette and invite you both to be present while we test it
tomorrow. . . . Yes, here at the Yard at eleven o’clock.’

At the time appointed a little group sat in the Inspector’s room.
There was first of all Miss Drew, dressed quietly in a navy blue coat
and skirt, and a small hat. Her kindly, dependable face was pale and
somewhat drawn, as if the strain of the last few weeks had taken its
toll of her. But she was calm and pleasantly courteous as usual, and
did not betray by word or deed the anxiety which was gnawing at her
heart.

Jimmy Daunt, who sat beside her, seemed the more nervous of the two.
He was extremely dissatisfied at the way his case was going, and
eagerly anxious to learn in what direction the Inspector’s fresh
information would tend.

Mr Clayton, who sat next to Daunt, was anxious too. He devoutly hoped
that after all the fuss and trouble of his visit to London, he should
be able to give a decided opinion—to say definitely whether the man he
was to see was or was not Dale.

On the other side of Tanner sat Chief Inspector Edgar. On Tanner
reporting what he proposed to do, the latter had expressed a desire to
be present. He it was who had suggested having the meeting at the
Yard, in order to avoid the necessity of Miss Drew’s visiting the
prison. But he took no part in the proceedings, Tanner conducting all
the business.

When the visitors had been introduced to each other, Tanner rose, and
bowing to Miss Drew and her cousin, said:

‘I have taken the liberty of asking you to be present this morning, as
I know the keen interest you take in this case. Following a certain
line of inquiry, with the details of which I need not now trouble you,
I had the good fortune to come across Mr Clayton here. From what he
told me there seemed a reasonable probability that the man whom I
arrested in Portugal, and who gave his name as William Douglas, was
not so named at all, but was a certain Edward Dale, a clerk in the
late Sir William Ponson’s Ironworks, who emigrated to the States in
the year 1882. Mr Clayton has been good enough to come up all the way
from Newcastle to put this theory to the test. I propose now to
confront Douglas with Mr Clayton, so as to see whether the two men
recognise each other. I may add that if Douglas has to admit he is
Dale, it is more than possible he may make a statement explaining the
whole affair. Now, Mr Clayton, might I ask you to sit here at my desk
with your head bent as if writing, and when I sign to you, to move
round so that Douglas may see your face suddenly.’

A roll top desk was placed at right angles to the wall beside the
large double window, and Mr Clayton crossed over and sat down on the
swing chair, bending forward as if to write. Anyone entering would see
only his stooped shoulders, and the back of his head, but when he
swung round his features would be fully lighted from the window. The
others placed themselves with their backs to the light, and in view of
the door. When he was satisfied as to the position of each, Tanner
pressed a bell and a sergeant of the police entered.

‘You may bring him in now.’

The man withdrew, closing the door, and silence came down on the
little group. To Lois Drew such scenes were new, and on her expressive
features there was a look of compassion for the unhappy man for whom
the trap was set, and whose life might depend on his actions during
the next few moments. To her the whole business was evidently
extremely distasteful, and it was not hard to conclude that only the
possibility of helping her lover had induced her to continue to take
part in it.

Tanner’s emotions were evidently far otherwise. The eagerness of the
hunter showed in his eyes, and his whole body seemed on the stretch.
He was by no means a cruel man, but he had pitted his wits against the
other, and the issue between them was now about to be joined.

A knock came to the door, it was thrown open, and William Douglas
entered.

The man seemed to have aged since Tanner had first seen him at his
house at Yelverton. His face was paler, his hair seemed greyer, and he
was even smaller and more stooped. Innocent or guilty, he was already
paying for his connection with the crime.

‘Take a seat, Mr Douglas,’ said Tanner, moving forward and placing a
chair where the full light from the window shone on the other’s face.
‘I have asked you to meet my friends here, to discuss some points
about this case. But I have to repeat my warning that you are not
bound to make any statement or to answer any questions you may be
asked unless you choose. This lady is Miss Drew, a friend of the
Ponson family; this gentleman,’ he indicated Daunt, ‘is Mr Austin
Ponson’s solicitor, and this,’ he waved his other hand, ‘is Chief
Inspector Edgar. I think you already know our friend at the desk.’

As Tanner spoke he signed to Mr Clayton, who swung round suddenly and
faced Douglas.

The latter had seemed very much mystified by the whole proceedings.
His eyes had followed Tanner’s gestures as each member of the party
had been mentioned, and he had made each a slight bow. But when he saw
Mr Clayton’s face he remained as if turned to stone. At first for a
moment he seemed puzzled and doubtful, then his eyes fixed themselves
in a tense stare on the other’s features, his face grew slowly pale
and drops of sweat formed on his forehead. Then, as if some second
thought had passed through his mind, an expression of something like
relief showed in his eyes. So he sat, staring, motionless.

But if the effect of the meeting on Douglas was disconcerting, it was
as nothing to that produced on Mr Clayton. On first seeing the
newcomer, he too looked puzzled and doubtful. Then gradually an
expression of utter astonishment spread over his features. He
literally gasped, and seemed so overwhelmed with amazement as to be
bereft of the power of speech.

The surprise on the countenances of the two chief actors in the scene
was reflected faintly on the faces of Lois Drew and the solicitor. But
on Tanner’s there was triumph. If the girl and her cousin had not
realised what was happening, he had. His plan had succeeded. That
these two knew each other was established beyond any possibility of
denial. It was as if each had shouted his recognition of the other
aloud. He spoke quietly to the suspected man.

‘So you really are Edward Dale?’

The words seemed to restore the power of movement to Mr Clayton.

‘No,’ he almost shouted in his excitement. ‘It’s not Edward Dale. It’s
Tom!’

Tanner jumped as if struck in the face.

‘What?’ he stammered. ‘What’s that you say? Tom? But—but—I thought—’

His voice trailed away into silence as the meaning of this discovery
began to penetrate into his mind. Tom Dale was lost in the _Numidian_
disaster thirty-five years before—so he had been told, and so every
one had believed. But every one must have been wrong. If this were
Tom, he must have escaped from the wreck. He must have escaped and he
must have concealed his escape. Why? Why should he conceal it? Why, to
get rid of his wife, of course. It was a case of desertion. He had had
all her money; he hated her. Of course that was it. He would take the
opportunity to change his name and make a bid for freedom. But his
wife—And then Tanner gasped in his turn as he saw the further
consequences involved. His wife had married Sir William Ponson,
thinking her first husband was dead. But now it was clear that had
been no marriage at all. Lady Ponson was Lady Ponson no longer, but
Mrs Tom Dale—the wife of the drunken ex-clerk and suspected
blackmailer! Sir William was not married. Austin and Enid were
illegitimate! No wonder Sir William submitted to blackmail rather than
allow such a scandal to become public. As innocent in the matter as
the babes unborn, Sir William and the woman he had considered his
wife, as well as his son and daughter, would have had to pay as dear
as if the whole affair had been deliberate.

Tanner glanced at Mr Clayton. His excitement had subsided, and a look
of fierce indignation against Dale was showing on his face. Tanner
spoke.

‘I suppose there can be no mistake?’

‘Mistake?’ the other burst out. ‘Man alive, look at him. By heaven I
wish there was a mistake!’

‘We had better bring him up to Gateshead, and see if anyone else will
confirm your identification.’

There was an interruption from the prisoner.

‘You needn’t trouble,’ he said sadly. ‘I admit it. I am Tom Dale.’

‘You escaped from the _Numidian_?’

‘I escaped. I was picked up by a fishing smack and taken into
Gloucester. I was on board four days before we got in, and I had
plenty of time to make my plans. I don’t pretend I wasn’t wrong, but I
wasn’t so bad as you think. I dare say you won’t believe me, but I did
it for Ethel’s sake. She was tied to me, and I knew I was a bad egg
and had all but ruined her. And what’s more, I knew I would ruin her
outright if I went back to her. So I deserted her. But all I rid her
of was trouble. I thought I would give her another chance with her
life, and I did. I swore she would never know. And if I did go wrong,
she at least has had her life happy since because of it.’

The man spoke simply, and with a certain dignity which impressed his
hearers.

‘How did you conceal your identity?’ Tanner asked.

‘Very easily. I had made friends on the voyage with another passenger.
He had told me he was alone in the world. I saw him drown. I took his
name.’

‘And then you came here and blackmailed the man you had injured?’

Dale nodded his head slowly.

‘I admit that too,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I most bitterly regret it,
but I must admit it. I do not want to make any excuses for that, but
here again the facts are not quite so black as they look. When I had
been out there about thirty years I got a longing for the old country.
I had made a little money in the States, and I left my job and came
over to England. I was afraid to go back to Gateshead, so I looked
around and took that cottage in Devonshire. Then one day in London I
met Ponson—I didn’t know he had a handle to his name then. He
recognised me, and there was a scene. I thought he would have killed
me in the street. Then I got him into a bar, and we took a private
room and had it out. I understood he had a right to have a down on me
for deserting Ethel, but at first I couldn’t understand why he was so
absolutely mad. Then I learnt. I hadn’t known what had happened to
Ethel, for I was too much afraid of arousing suspicion as to who I
was, to go back to Gateshead or make any inquiries. He threatened me
so wildly I got afraid for my life, and then I saw how I could turn
the tables on him. I told him that so far from me being in his power,
he was in mine. I told him I would make the affair public myself, and
that if I could be punished I would take it, and he could have the
scandal. He blustered at first, then gradually he saw his position,
and then he crawled. He offered to make the thing a business
proposition. He would pay for my silence. He pressed his offer on me,
and I accepted it at last. And I have at least kept my word. Not a
whisper of the affair has passed my lips. But I admit taking the
money. I was very hard up, and it meant a lot to me. You don’t
understand, gentlemen, how much a few pounds means to a poor man. And
with all his thousands he didn’t miss it. Not any more than you would
miss a penny if you dropped it. I took it and I admit I pressed him
for more.’

‘Was that what you went to the Luce Manor boathouse for on the night
of the murder?’

Chief Inspector Edgar moved suddenly.

‘Come, Tanner, that won’t do,’ he advised, and then to Dale: ‘You
needn’t answer that unless you like.’

Dale hesitated. To the others it seemed as if he was on the verge of a
confession. Then he bowed to Edgar.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I had perhaps better consult my solicitor
first.’

Tanner looked annoyed, but he controlled himself and again addressed
the prisoner.

‘Then you don’t wish to make any statement?’

‘No. Not at present, at any rate.’

Tanner nodded and rang his bell. The same sergeant re-entered and
signed to Dale to follow him. Then, including the whole party in a
slight bow, the latter rose from his chair and the two men left the
room.

The silence which fell when the door was closed lasted a full thirty
seconds, and then Daunt broke it.

‘Well, Inspector, this has been very interesting, but I’m hanged if I
can make head or tail of it. Maybe you’d explain to Miss Drew and me
what it’s all about.’

Chief Inspector Edgar rose.

‘I think that’s all I’m concerned in,’ he said, and turning to Mr
Clayton, he invited him to smoke a cigar in his room.

When Tanner was left alone with the cousins, he realised that he had
an extremely unpleasant task to perform. Miss Drew, as the affianced
wife of Austin Ponson, was personally interested in the story. Though
from his knowledge of her he thought she would not place so great
importance on the unfortunate occurrence as might a shallower and more
conventional woman, yet the news could not be otherwise than a shock
to her. He wished someone else had the telling of it.

But no purpose would be saved by delay. The sooner he began, the
sooner the unwelcome job would be over.

Asking Miss Drew’s permission, he passed his cigar case to Daunt, then
drew forward his chair and began to speak.

‘I am afraid the story I have to tell you will come rather as a shock
to you,’ he said, as he examined the end of his cigar. ‘This man Dale
had been blackmailing Sir William Ponson for the last four years.
There was an exceedingly unfortunate secret in Sir William’s
life—unknown to him until he learnt it from Dale at that time, four
years ago. Sir William was in no wise to blame for what had taken
place. So far as I can learn, he had acted with scrupulous honour all
through. The fault was Dale’s and Dale’s only. But to make it clear I
must tell you from the beginning.’

The cousins remained almost motionless while the Inspector related the
details of his journey north, and the facts he had there learnt; the
family history of the Dales; how the brothers came across Sir William
in the Eagle Ironworks; the rivalry between Ponson and Tom Dale for
the hand of the pretty Ethel Osborne; Tom’s success in the contest;
the unhappy married life of the young couple; Tom’s mission to Canada;
the loss of the _Numidian_, and his presumed death; Sir William’s
marriage with Mrs Dale, and the birth of Austin and Enid; Tom Dale’s
return to England; and finally the blackmailing, culminating in the
presumed negotiations for the purchase of the annuity.

‘But the murder?’ asked Daunt when at last the Inspector paused. ‘What
about that?’

‘The murder unfortunately remains as great a mystery as ever,’ Tanner
answered slowly; ‘indeed, even more so,’ and he explained his
difficulty about, as he expressed it, the wrong man having been
killed.

The two men discussed the affair for some minutes further, Miss Drew
remaining silent. When they got up to take their leave her eyes were
very bright, and there was an expression on her face the Inspector
could not quite fathom.

‘Mr Tanner,’ she said as she held out her hand, ‘I would like to thank
you for the way you told your story.’

Outside the Yard she dismissed Daunt.

‘I am going to write to Austin,’ she announced. ‘I shall leave the
letter at your office shortly after lunch, then, like a dear man, you
will take it to him immediately, and bring me the answer.’

‘Of course, I will, old girl,’ Daunt answered her as they parted.



CHAPTER XV.

In the Luce Manor Boathouse

That same evening Daunt paid his promised visit to Austin Ponson. He
found his client seated despondently in his cell, his head resting on
his hands. Like Dale, he had aged since his arrest. His face was pale
and drawn, his eyes weary, and as he moved his head a suspicion of
grey showed at his temples. His manner had lost its old ease and
lightness, and it was evident that the crisis through which he was
passing would leave its mark on him for many a day to come.

‘I have something for you, Mr Ponson,’ the solicitor said as he sat
down and felt in his pocket for Lois’s letter. ‘You are to let me have
an answer.’

Austin’s eyes lit up as he saw the handwriting, and he seized the note
with eagerness. To let him read it in peace, Daunt drew some papers
from his pocket and began to study them. But he hadn’t done so for
many seconds when an exclamation drew his attention back to the other.

Austin Ponson had risen to his feet and was excitedly pacing the cell.
He was a transformed man. A smile was on his lips, his eyes were
shining, and his face had a rapt and beatific expression, like that of
a man who sees a vision of angels.

‘My Heavens!’ he cried, ‘_What_ a girl! She’s beyond anything I could
have imagined. One in a thousand millions! I can hardly realise it. I
tell you, Daunt, if I never get out of this hell again, it’s been
worth it. It would be worth any suffering to get such a letter. Tell
her—But you can’t tell her. Nor I. No one could ever tell her what I
feel.’

He paused and looked at the other, then resumed his hurried pacing.

‘I swear that if I get out of this place, I’ll make it up to her. I’ll
live for her day and night, and for nothing else. She’ll never regret
what she has done—that is,’ he sank into his chair and the dejected
look returned to his face, ‘if I ever do get out.’

‘You forget, Mr Ponson, that I don’t know what’s in your note.’

Austin stared.

‘You don’t?’ he queried in surprise. ‘Why, she tells me the whole
thing’s out—that Tom Dale has been found, and that she knows about my
father’s marriage and my birth. And’—his face lit up and he spoke
triumphantly—‘she says she doesn’t mind—that it will make no
difference to’—he paused as if for a word, then concluded—‘her
feelings towards me. What do you think of that?’

‘I congratulate you very heartily, Mr Ponson,’ Daunt replied, though
with a mental reservation. ‘But I can assure you that so far as I am
aware, the whole thing is anything but “out”. It is true the identity
of William Douglas with Tom Dale has been discovered, and the effect
his existence has on the validity of your father’s marriage is known.
But that is all. No explanation of the murder has yet come to light.
And, after all, that is really what matters.’

‘Has Dale admitted his identity?’

‘Yes.’

‘And has he made no statement about what took place in the boathouse?’

‘None. But, Mr Ponson, that remark implies to me that you were there
yourself and know.’

Austin looked sharply at the speaker.

‘I didn’t say so,’ he answered dryly, ‘but—stop, let me think a
moment.’

For some minutes silence reigned in the gloomy cell. To Daunt it had
seemed as if his client was on the verge of a confession, and he
wondered if one more sordid story was to be added to the list of those
to which the grey walls of this grim apartment had in all probability
listened. Austin sat motionless, his mind evidently engrossed with
some problem, the solution of which eluded him. But at last he seemed
to find it. Straightening himself up, he faced the solicitor.

‘This news you have brought makes a tremendous difference to me,’ he
said. ‘From my point of view there is no longer any reason why the
events of that tragic night should not be known. I have remained
silent for two reasons. First, because of my mother. The thought of
her learning that she was still the wife of that drunken scoundrel was
more than I could bear. You’ll understand my feelings—the whole thing
is so painful I hate to speak of it. Then there was another reason. I
made the unforgivable blunder of being afraid to tell Miss Drew. I
have paid for that already, and every bit of that payment I deserve
ten times over. I distrusted her. I thought if the circumstances of my
birth came out she might have nothing more to do with me. And I just
couldn’t risk that. You see, it was not as if there had been any
deliberate evil on my parents’ part. Both were utterly innocent, and
even ignorant that anything was wrong. Therefore I could not see that
I was called upon to chance the wrecking of my happiness on what was
after all a mere technical matter only. God forgive me, I did not
intend to tell that angel. I feared the stigma would remain. Well, I
have suffered for it. As I ought to have known, she was above a petty
feeling of that sort. I should have told her the moment I knew of the
matter myself. I should have told Tanner everything at the start. Much
trouble would have been saved. And now it may be too late. I may not
be believed.’

‘I don’t know, of course, what you propose to tell,’ said Daunt as the
other paused, ‘but as your legal adviser I should warn you to be very
careful of what you say to anyone. If you care to tell your story to
me, I shall be pleased to advise you as to what, if any of it, should
be made public.’

‘I suppose that would be wisest,’ Austin returned, ‘but I have quite
made up my mind. From the first I decided to tell all I knew if the
secret of my parentage came out. That was the only reason for my
silence. Indeed, I was coming to the conclusion I must tell in any
case, even if I myself had to reveal it. I appreciate your offer and
under other circumstances would gladly avail myself of your advice,
but whatever the consequences, I am going to tell. But I by no means
wish the affair to be made public. I want most of all to tell Miss
Drew, I would like to tell you, and I must tell Tanner. If you will
help me by making this possible, I will be for ever your debtor. One
other thing, I should like Cosgrove to know my decision. It is only
due to him. Can you arrange these matters?’

‘I think so. But I cannot but feel you may be making a mistake in not
first taking, I don’t say my advice, but the advice of some legal man.
I cannot move you on that point?’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Austin warmly, ‘there is no one whose advice I
would take more readily than yours. But in this case we need not
discuss it. If you will not help me to the interview I want, I will
send for Tanner and tell him here.’

Daunt saw there was no more to be said. He waited till Austin had
written his reply to Lois—a lengthy and complicated proceeding—then,
promising he would see Tanner without delay, he left the cell.

Inspector Tanner was keenly interested by the news.

‘At last!’ he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. ‘We shall get the truth
this time. He’s getting frightened. He’ll not bluff us any more.’

‘I don’t see that you’ve any right to say that,’ Daunt returned hotly.
‘It will be time enough to accuse him of lying when you hear what he
has to say.’

Tanner smiled.

‘Very good, Mr Daunt. I’ll not say a word—till then.’

It was arranged that the proceedings of that morning should be
repeated next day. Austin would be brought to Scotland Yard, and there
in the presence of Lois, Daunt, Tanner, and a stenographer, he could
make his statement.

At eleven o’clock next day Lois and Jimmy Daunt drove up to the Yard,
and were shown without delay to Tanner’s room. There they met the
Inspector and his Chief, Mr Edgar, who had expressed a wish to be
present on this occasion also. At the desk was a shorthand writer.

It was cool in the grey walled room. The open window allowed a current
of fresh air to flow gently in, carrying with it the subdued hum of
the great city without. In the sunny courtyard the sparrows were
twittering angrily, while a bluebottle buzzed endlessly up and down
the window pane. The little group, after the first brief greetings,
sat silent. Expectancy showed on every face, but whereas Tanner’s and
the Chief Inspector’s also indicated satisfaction, uneasiness was
marked on Daunt’s and positive apprehension on Lois’s. To her at
least, the coming meeting with her lover was obviously no light
ordeal. On it, as was evident to them all, largely depended the future
happiness of both.

They had not waited long before a knock came to the door and a
sergeant of police admitted Austin Ponson. The young man was dressed
in a suit of navy blue, and bore himself quietly and with some
dignity. In the bright light of the room the lines of suffering showed
more clearly on his face, and his eyes looked still more weary.

Instantly on entering they swept over those present, fixing themselves
immediately on Lois. In spite of an evident effort for self control,
the light of an absolute adoration shone in them for a moment, then he
withdrew them, bowed generally to the company, and sat down.

But this was not enough for Lois. She sprang to her feet, and going
over to him, held out her hand. He rose and clasped it, and though
neither would trust themselves to speak, they saw that in each other’s
eyes which satisfied them.

Tanner with some delicacy busied himself for a few moments in giving
directions to the stenographer, then turning to the others, he spoke.

‘I don’t think it is necessary, Miss Drew and gentlemen, for me to
explain our presence here. Last night Mr Daunt intimated to me that Mr
Ponson had a communication to make, at which he wished Miss Drew, Mr
Daunt, and myself to be present. This meeting has therefore been
arranged. I have only to make known to you, Mr Ponson, Chief Inspector
Edgar’—he indicated his colleague—‘and to ask you to proceed with your
statement. It is, of course, understood by you that you make it
voluntarily and that it may be used against you?’

‘I understand that right enough, Inspector,’ began Austin, ‘and I wish
to say I have no quarrel with your treatment of me. You have been fair
all through.’

He paused, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and went on:

‘The only thing I should like to ask is whether my cousin, Cosgrove,
has been told that I am going to make this statement?’

‘He has been told,’ Tanner answered.

‘And may I learn if he was satisfied?’

‘He seemed so.’

‘Thank you. I am not quite sure how much of my story you know, but I
shall tell you everything. When I have finished I shall have a request
to make of you—that you will keep what I am about to tell private—but
I do not know whether or not you will find that possible.’

Tanner nodded without speaking.

‘Of my early life,’ went on Austin, ‘I do not think I need say much. I
expect’—he looked at Tanner—‘you know all about it. You know that,
while we never had an open breach, my father and I did not pull well
together. We looked at things from such different points of view that
our intercourse only produced irritation. My father wished me to read
for the bar with the idea of entering Parliament, and trying for a
seat in the Ministry. I was not ambitious in that direction, but
preferred literary work, and scientific research. Therefore, as you no
doubt are aware, I found it irksome at home, and I set up my own
establishment in Halford. But that we remained good friends was proved
by my father’s moving to Luce Manor at my suggestion. With my mother I
was always in sympathy. She was easygoing, and deferred without
protest to my father’s decisions, but never at any time was there the
slightest cloud between us. So things had gone on for years, and so
they went on until this terrible business began.’

Austin moved nervously in his chair, glancing quickly round the little
group.

‘On Sunday, 4th July,’ he resumed, ‘occurred the first event of this
unhappy tragedy, so far as I was concerned. I received by that
morning’s post a letter from my father, saying he wished to see me on
very private business, and asking me to dine and spend that evening
with him. He directed me to destroy his letter, and not refer to the
matter to anyone.

‘Considerably surprised, I burnt the note, and duly went out to Luce
Manor in time for dinner. When the meal was over my father and I
retired to his study, and there when our cigars were alight, he said
he had a very grievous and terrible secret to impart to me which would
doubtless give me considerable pain. He locked the door, then sitting
down he told me what I believe you already know.

‘“My boy,” he said, “we have not perhaps pulled it off together as
well as I could have wished, and when you hear what I have to tell
you, I fear you may be tempted to think more bitterly of me than I
deserve. But I can assure you on my honour, that in this terrible
affair I acted in perfectly good faith all through. Until four years
ago I was as ignorant as you are still that there was anything wrong.”

‘“I don’t understand,” I said.

‘“No,” he answered, “but you will soon.”

‘Then he told me of his early life, and that of the two Dales; of his
falling in love with my mother, Ethel Osborne; of the rivalry between
himself and Tom Dale for her hand; of Dale’s success; of the miserable
married life of the couple; of Dale’s mission to Canada, and of his
presumed death in the _Numidian_ disaster, and of my father’s own
marriage with the widow. All this I had known more or less vaguely
before, and I could not understand why my father recited the
circumstances in such detail. But he soon made it clear to me.

‘“As you know,” he went on, “your dear mother and I have lived happily
together ever since. She had her time of suffering, but thank God, she
has enjoyed her after-life, and please God, she shall never learn what
I am about to tell you.”

‘“Some four years ago,” continued my father, “I happened to be in
London, and walking down Cheapside I met a man whose face seemed
vaguely familiar. He was short and slight, with small features, rather
delicately moulded, white hair, and a short goatee beard. He saw me at
the same time, and his eyes fixed themselves on my face with an
expression of almost incredulous recognition. For a few seconds we
stood facing each other, while I racked my brains to recall his
identity. And then suddenly I knew him. It was Tom Dale!”

‘My father paused, but for some seconds I did not grasp the full
meaning of his statement. Then gradually its significance dawned on
me. I need not repeat it. You have heard what it involved. I was
appalled and horrified. Though upset on my own account, I ask you to
believe that what distressed me most was its possible effect on my
mother and sister. Of my mother I just couldn’t bear to think, and it
also hurt me beyond words to believe that any such secret should have
power to throw a shadow over Enid’s life.’

‘Did you speak to your father on this particular point?’ Tanner
interjected.

‘Speak? I should rather think so. I was beside myself with horror.’

‘Can you recollect the exact words you used?’

Austin considered.

‘I hardly think so,’ he said at last, ‘though every detail of the
scene is fixed in my memory; I said as the thing began to dawn on me,
“And my mother—it can’t be that she—?” I did not wish to speak the
words, and my father completed my sentence for me. “Yes,” he said,
“there’s no escape from it; she is the wife of that drunken ruffian.”
Then I cried, “Good Heavens! She can’t be,” or something to that
effect, and he answered that it was only too true.’

‘Might the words you used have been, “My God, sir, she isn’t?”’

‘Yes, I believe those were the words. That was the sense anyway.’

‘Continue, please.’

‘It appeared that upon their recognition there was a scene between my
father and Dale. Eventually, however, they took a private room at a
neighbouring bar, and there talked the matter over. Then to my
father’s amazement it came out that Dale had not known of my mother’s
second marriage. But when the latter realised how matters stood, his
manner changed. He said it was my father, and not himself, who had
come within the reach of the law, and that if the affair became known,
even if my father escaped imprisonment, he would still have public
opinion to reckon with. Was he prepared to face the scandal?

‘My father was not. His good name and that of his family were very
precious to him. In his agitation he did a weak thing. He offered to
buy Dale’s silence.

‘My father then told of his negotiations with Dale, with the details
of which I think I need hardly trouble you. Suffice it to say that
Dale put on the screw and got several hundreds that year. But that did
not satisfy him. His demands grew more and more outrageous till at
last my father came to the conclusion that some step must be taken to
rid himself of the incubus.

‘“It is not the actual money he is now getting,” said my father, “it
is the uncertainty under which I am living that is making me ill. He
will continue to bleed me, and after I am gone he will bleed your
mother and yourself, and perhaps Enid. Besides, we don’t know if he
really will preserve the secret. I have been thinking for some time
that I must tell you and Cosgrove the whole story, so that we may
devise some plan to protect ourselves, but now events have been
precipitated by a fresh demand from Dale. Read that.”

‘My father handed me a letter headed “Myrtle Cottage, Yelverton, South
Devon”. It was from Dale, and in it he said the existing arrangements
with my father were unsatisfactory, that instead of a hundred or two
now and then, he would rather have one large sum which should close
the account between them. He demanded my father should buy him an
annuity which should bring him in £500 a year for life. In peremptory
words he required an immediate answer, adding that he was coming to
town that day and would stay in a small hotel near Gower Street, where
my father could see him.

‘That letter had come on the previous Thursday, and on the
Saturday—that was the day before our interview—my father had gone to
town and seen Dale. The man, it seemed, had been more truculent and
overbearing than ever before, and had presented what amounted to an
ultimatum. Either he would have the money for his annuity, or he would
tell. After a long wrangle my father had promised to consider the
matter until the following Monday, when he would see Dale again and
let him know his decision.

‘My father went on to say he would willingly pay the demand to be rid
of the whole business, but his difficulty was, of course, that he had
no guarantee the payment would rid him of it. He would still be, to
precisely the same extent, in Dale’s power.

‘He continued that he felt that as Cosgrove and I were also interested
in the affair, the time had now come to take us into his confidence,
in order to see if some joint action could not be taken to bring the
matter to an end. He had not yet spoken to Cosgrove, but he suggested
that on the following day, Monday, we should both go to town and have
an interview with my cousin, after which he could go on and see Dale.
We decided to travel separately, to meet at a little French restaurant
in Soho, and to keep the matter perfectly private.’

Austin once again paused and glanced round the little group. He was
speaking quietly, but there was a ring of truth in his voice. Tanner,
who sat checking his every statement in the light of what he had
himself learnt, and watching like a lynx for discrepancies, had to
admit to himself that the story they were hearing was consistent with
the facts. If Austin could explain away all the damaging points in an
equally convincing manner, the Inspector felt that the case against
him might easily collapse.

‘Early next morning I made the appointment with Cosgrove by
telephone,’ Austin resumed, ‘and by different trains my father and I
went to town. We took a private room at the restaurant, and there my
father told Cosgrove. He was not so upset as I had been, and
recommended refusing to meet Dale and letting him do his worst. Though
the matter did not affect Cosgrove so closely as it did me, I would
have agreed to this proposal, but for my mother and sister. After all,
I thought, my father has plenty of money. He will not feel what he may
give to this Dale, and there can be no doubt it would be better for
all concerned if the affair remained a secret.

‘The question then became, “How could we ensure that a further payment
would really have the desired effect?”

‘My father had a plan—a wild, unpractical, even farcical plan—or so it
struck me at first. He said that as we could not adopt the only
infallible scheme to silence Dale—to murder him—we must be content
with one which promised at least a reasonable chance of success. He
said the man was a coward, and that we must work on that. If we could
frighten him enough we would get what we wanted, and by his plan he
thought we could frighten him so much that he would not dare to reveal
what he knew. The plan was as follows:

‘My father was to see Dale the same afternoon, hand him £100 as a
pledge of good faith, and promise to pay the annuity, though not for
the amount claimed. The refusal was to be made more or less doubtfully
so as to convey the impression to Dale’s mind that he had only to
negotiate further and he would get what he wanted. In fact, the
interview was to terminate with the principle agreed on, but the
precise sum unsettled.

‘“But why do that?” interrupted Cosgrove. “If you pay the lump sum you
lose your hold on him.”

‘“I think not,” returned my father. “It is part of my scheme that he
should have a strong temptation to fall in with our wishes, and the
annuity will provide that.”

‘Cosgrove nodded, and my father went on with his explanation.

‘Dale was to be told to get further figures from the insurance
company, giving the cost of annuities for smaller annual amounts. At
the same time another meeting would be arranged at which the matter
would be settled and the money paid. My father was to explain to him
that he didn’t want to make any more mysterious visits to town, and
that Dale must therefore bring the information to Luce Manor. To keep
the visit secret he was not to come to the house, but was to be at the
boathouse at 9.30 in the evening, where my father would slip out and
meet him. Owing to the fact that my mother and sister were going away
on a visit on the following day, Tuesday, the meeting was
provisionally fixed for Wednesday.

‘Without letting Dale know, Cosgrove and I were also to be at the
boathouse, and with our support my father was to take a strong line
with Dale. The following proposition would be made him. My father
would recognise the value of the secret, and would pay Dale, through
some agency which would conceal his identity, a sum to the insurance
company which would bring Dale in an annuity of about a pound a
working day—say £320 per annum. This he would do on condition that
Dale would give us an incriminating weapon against himself, which
would take the value out of his secret, but which would not be used if
he held his tongue. He was to sign a document stating that he was
Edward Dale, not Tom; that he admitted having blackmailed my father by
falsely representing himself as Tom; that he further admitted my
father’s power and right to send him to penal servitude, but that he
begged that on this full admission of guilt, coupled with an immediate
and total cessation of all annoyance, my father would refrain from
ruining and embittering the closing years of his life.

‘“He’ll never sign,” Cosgrove interrupted again.

‘“Wait a moment,” my father answered, and he went on to explain that
if Dale refused to sign, he was to be threatened with immediate death
by being tied up, gagged, and drowned in the water basin in the
boathouse, it being explained to him that, after being unbound, his
body would be sent down over the falls, whereby his death would be put
down to accident.

‘I was amazed at my father seriously suggesting such a proceeding, and
I felt strongly opposed to it.

‘“No, no,” I cried, “we can’t do that,” and Cosgrove nodded his
agreement.

‘“Why not?” my father queried, and set himself to overcome our
scruples. He argued that if our objection was to making the man sign a
false statement, we must remember it was only a bluff, and said that
for the sake of my mother and sister we must be willing to do what we
might otherwise reasonably object to. If, on the other hand, we were
considering Dale’s feelings, we should not forget we were suggesting
no harm to him—on the contrary we were about to offer him a large sum
of money. The intention was not to injure him, but to prevent him
injuring us.

‘“It’s not that,” said Cosgrove. “I don’t give a fig for the false
statement, nor the man’s feelings either. As you say, he more than
deserves far worse treatment than what you suggest. Nor do I care if
the thing brings us within reach of the law—I would risk that for my
aunt, and so would we all. But I don’t like your plan because it will
not work.”

‘“Why not?” asked my father.

‘“Why not?” Cosgrove repeated. “Because Dale has only to inform the
police of the whole affair. He would be believed. How would we account
for our meeting here, to take one point only?”

‘“Ah,” my father rejoined, “you always go too fast. I meet that
difficulty in two ways. If Dale informed, I would say he signed the
confession when I saw him in London—I shall see him this
afternoon—under my threat of otherwise immediately exposing his
blackmail to the police. Secondly, alibis are easy to fake. Each of
the three of us must work out a false alibi, so that we can deny the
meeting in the boathouse _in toto_.”

‘“No, no, I don’t like it,” Cosgrove demurred.

‘“None of us like it,” answered my father, “and I admit my plan is far
from perfect. But can you suggest anything better?”

‘I was even more strongly against the whole business than Cosgrove,
and both of us began raising objections to it. We argued that even if
we obtained the false confession, it would not ensure our immunity
from annoyance. To this my father replied that that was where Dale’s
cowardly nature came in. The man would not be sure how the confession
would affect him if it fell into the hands of the police, and he would
be afraid to risk its becoming known.

‘We discussed the matter at great length, but neither Cosgrove nor I
had an alternative proposal to offer, and at last my father persuaded
us against our better judgment to fall in with his.

‘I need not weary you by telling you all the arguments used, but at
last the details were settled and we turned to the consideration of
the false alibis.

‘In my father’s case it was considered sufficient that there should be
no evidence of the visit, lest overmuch proof of our statements should
show an element of design. Owing to my mother and sister being from
home, he would in the evening be left alone in his study, from which
he could slip down to the river with the practical certainty of his
absence being unnoticed.

‘Cosgrove and I worked out the plans which, I believe, you know.
Cosgrove’s required the help of his friend, Miss Belcher. Mine was
dependent on footprints, and I proposed to report the alleged hoax
played on me to the local police, so that these marks might be
observed by them while still fresh.

‘Our plans had taken nearly three hours to work out, and we parted at
the restaurant door. Later in the evening my father telephoned—we had
arranged club calls—that Wednesday night would suit Dale.’

Again Austin paused and moved uneasily, and again Tanner had to admit
to himself that so far the story they were hearing, while utterly
unexpected and extraordinary, bore the impress of truth. Up to the
present he had been unable to detect any inconsistency between it and
the facts he had himself learnt. He was coming to the opinion that
they were about to hear the truth of the tragedy itself, and he set
himself to listen with renewed concentration as Austin resumed:

‘I bought the two pairs of shoes I required for my alibi, on that
Monday afternoon. At home I locked one pair away, and took care the
attention of my man should be called to the other. Then on the
Wednesday evening I wrote the forged note from Miss Drew, and dropped
it into the letter box on my hall door, where my man found it as I had
intended.

‘Putting on the new shoes of which my man had had charge, I got a boat
and rowed down to the boathouse. My statement about the hoax was
obviously false, and the evidence of that girl and her lover in Dr
Graham’s wood was true.’

It was evident that this admission, made in the calm matter-of-fact
way in which Austin was speaking, came as a considerable shock to Lois
Drew. But she made no remark, listening motionless and intent to what
was coming—as indeed were they all.

‘The water gate was closed, and as I did not want Dale to see my boat
and perhaps take fright, I went into the boathouse to open it. My
father was there already, and he opened the gate, and I took the boat
in. Presently Cosgrove turned up. He had motored from London.

‘We waited for a few moments and then Dale arrived. Directly he
entered Cosgrove slipped behind him and locked the door, putting the
key in his pocket. Dale was obviously taken aback when he saw three
persons waiting for him, and when he observed the door being locked he
got very white and frightened looking. But my father spoke to him
quietly.

‘“You need not be afraid, Dale,” he said. “If you are reasonable, no
harm will befall you. These are my son and nephew, who are as much
interested in the affair as I am. We are going to make you a proposal,
but I am afraid we are not going to give you the option of declining
it.”

‘My father then explained clearly and quietly that he was willing to
pay well for the preservation of the secret, and promised to purchase
an annuity which would bring Dale in £320 a year for life. Dale
interrupted that it was £500 he wanted, but my father replied that
£320 was the sum he had decided on. I think it was the quiet, final
way my father spoke, as if the reopening of the matter was by his
decision made impossible, that first gave Dale a hint of what he was
up against.

‘My father went on to point out that on his side he required an end of
the annoyance, and explained about the confession. Dale then blustered
and said he would see us all in a warm place before he signed. My
father, still speaking very gently, said we would give him five
minutes to make up his mind. He took a revolver from his pocket—he had
previously shown us it was unloaded—and pointing it at Dale warned him
that if he tried any tricks he would instantly be shot. And so we
waited, my father calm and placid though keeping a wary eye on the
other, Cosgrove nervous and smoking cigarette after cigarette, while
I, also a little excited, kept pacing up and down the edge of the
basin.

‘At long last the five minutes was up and my father spoke.

‘“Well, Dale?” he queried.

‘The man showed his teeth like an animal.

‘“I’ll see you in Hades first,” he snarled.

‘At a sign from my father Cosgrove and I sprang forward and seized the
blackmailer. He was, as you know, small and elderly, and weakened from
drink, and he was like a child in our hands. I held him while Cosgrove
tied his hands and feet, in each case with silk handkerchiefs which
would leave no mark on the skin. He grew very white, and a look of
terror shone in his eyes, but he would not give way, and we felt that
we had still failed to make him believe we were in earnest. My father
tried to frighten him still further. He spoke again in a
matter-of-fact tone.

‘“You think, Dale, we’re not going to carry the thing through? I can
assure you all the details have been carefully worked out. If you do
not sign we shall make that anchor”—he indicated that belonging to the
largest boat which was standing in the corner with its rope
attached—“fast to your shoulders and lower you into the basin. After
ten minutes we’ll pull your body up, take off the handkerchiefs, carry
your body out in the boat and slip it overboard where it will be swept
down over the falls. There will be nothing to indicate your death was
not an accident. Then I may tell you for your information we have all
arranged carefully planned false alibis, so that we can prove we were
not here tonight at all. On the other hand, if you sign, you get your
freedom, and here”—my father took a paper from his pocket and held it
so that Dale could read it—“is a cheque for £3000 for your annuity. So
now, do you still refuse?”

‘“Your scheme won’t wash,” growled Dale. “No one would believe I would
sign such a confession except under compulsion.”

‘“Quite right,” my father answered. “We wouldn’t suggest that you did
it of your own free will. I would explain that the compulsion I
employed was a threat to hand you over to the police. Come now, we
can’t spend the night here. Will you sign or will you not?”

‘Dale did not move.

‘“Very well. Gag him and get the anchor on,” said my father.

‘Cosgrove gagged him, while I brought over the anchor, and the two of
us then made it fast to Dale’s shoulders.

‘“Now over with him.”

‘We lifted our victim towards the edge. We intended really to duck him
if he remained obdurate. But he didn’t. He couldn’t stand any more.
Furiously he nodded his head.

‘“Stop,” said my father, and to Dale: “Do you agree?”

‘The little man again nodded.

‘We released him, and bringing him over to a shelf at the side of the
room, gave him paper and ink and a draft of the confession, and
ordered him to copy and sign it.

‘The man was shivering with fright and rage, but he did as he was
told. At last we had a weapon, which, we believed, would save us from
further annoyance.

‘“Don’t imagine you can report this to the police,” my father warned
him. “You would not be believed against our word and alibis, but we
could prove the blackmail, and you would go to penal servitude. And
now,” he went on, “we’ll deal as straight with you in the matter of
payment. Here is a bearer cheque for £3000, which I hand to Mr
Cosgrove Ponson. You and he can go up to town tonight, and he will
cash it in the morning and hand you the money, seeing that you pay it
into your bank and then send a cheque for it to the insurance company.
The transaction will not therefore be traceable to me, as if any
question arises Mr Cosgrove and I will swear the money was a gift from
me to him to help to pay a pressing debt. That, I think, is
everything.”

‘It was just quarter to ten. The whole business had only taken little
more than ten minutes, and now nothing remained but to slip away
quietly from the boathouse and establish our alibis. And then suddenly
occurred that frightful business which robbed my father of his life,
and has caused all this sorrow and suffering and trouble to the
remainder of us.’

For the first time since he began to speak, Austin showed signs of
emotion. He moved uneasily and seemed to find it difficult to
continue. But he pulled himself together, and it was with a breathless
interest that the others listened as he resumed.

‘I suppose you know the plan of the boathouse?’ He paused, and Tanner
nodded. ‘Then I needn’t describe it. Before the tragedy my father and
Dale were standing facing each other at the angle of the L-shaped
wharf, that is, close beside the corner of the basin. Cosgrove and I
had been beside Dale, but on the conclusion of the business we had
moved away. Cosgrove had unlocked the door and gone out to see that no
one was in the vicinity, and I was engaged in raising the water gate
preparatory to getting out my boat.

‘My father was holding the confession in his hand, and it was probably
the sight of it that gave Dale the idea that he might recover his lost
hold on us. Presumably he thought he could seize the paper and bolt
with it before either Cosgrove or I could stop him. However, be that
as it may, I saw Dale suddenly spring forward and attempt to snatch
the paper from my father’s hand. My father stepped quickly back. But
as he did so, his heel caught in the rope by which my boat was moored,
and he fell backwards, his head striking the granolithic floor with
terrible force. He never moved again. We rushed forward, but he was
dead.’

Austin paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, while his
hearers sat motionless, amazed beyond speech at this unexpected
_dénouement_. So this was the explanation of all these mysteries! No
murder had been committed. The affair was an accident! If this story
were true, the case against all these men would break down.

But was it true? Tanner, at least, had his doubts. These men had shown
considerable ingenuity in constructing false alibis. Maybe this story
also was only a clever invention. But on the whole the Inspector was
inclined to believe it. It certainly rang true, and it was consistent
with what he had otherwise learnt.

Austin had waited a moment, but now he continued:

‘I need hardly say we were speechless from consternation. Our first
thought was to run for help—Cosgrove to Luce Manor, while I took my
boat across for Dr Graham. But this, we saw, would involve disclosing
the secret, and we hurriedly consulted in the hope of finding a way of
avoiding the revelation. And then it flashed across our minds what a
dreadful position we ourselves occupied. Might we not be suspected of
murder? Here we had come secretly to the boathouse, having devised
elaborate alibis to prove ourselves elsewhere. Though these alibis
were not completed, enough had been done to make the whole business
exceedingly fishy. We recollected that both Cosgrove and I not only
stood to gain fortunes by the death, but were also, both of us, in
special need of money at the moment. Then it was known I did not get
on well with my father . . .

‘I need not elaborate the case; no doubt, Mr Tanner, you considered
these matters before you arrested us. All I have to say is that we
became panic-stricken and lost our heads. We made an appalling
blunder. Instead of going for help and telling the truth, we decided
to arrange the circumstances to suggest accident, and trust to our
alibis in case suspicion should be aroused. It was so easy, for the
plan had already been worked out to frighten Dale. We talked it over
quickly, and thought we might improve on it.

‘We saw at once that it would seem much more natural if we suggested
that my father had taken out a boat of which he had lost control, and
had been carried over the falls. The injuries the body would get in
the rapids below, would, we imagined, account for the bruise on the
back of the head. By throwing the oars into the water nearer the other
side of the river, they would not go ashore with the boat, indicating
that my father had lost them, and thus explaining the accident.

‘The only thing unaccounted for was the motive which had caused my
father to take out a boat at this hour. To meet this difficulty I made
an entry in a small engagement book I found in his pocket, “Graham,
9.00 p.m.” I hoped it would be assumed he wished to make a private
call on the doctor.

‘There is little more to be told. We lifted the body into one of my
father’s boats, and I towed it out and set it adrift, dropping the
oars in some distance away. Then I returned to the Halford Clubhouse,
knocked up the attendant, and called on Miss Drew, all as you know.
About three in the morning I put on the shoes I had kept hidden,
slipped out of the house and made the tracks to the Abbey ruin,
returning without my absence having been noticed. I put the shoes back
in their hiding-place and next day, having sent my man on an errand, I
cleaned them and changed them for the other pair. This latter pair I
afterwards destroyed. The pair which had made the traces at the Abbey
(the sole of one of which I had marked) was thus left in my man’s
charge, and he was prepared to swear—quite honestly—that they had only
been out of his possession at the time of the alleged hoax. Is there
anything else you wish to know?’

Tanner asked a few questions, all of which Austin answered with the
utmost readiness. Then, after receiving an assurance that his
statement would receive the most careful attention of the authorities,
the meeting came to an end. Austin was led out, and after a few words
of conversation, Lois and Daunt took their leave.



CHAPTER XVI.

Conclusion

The doubts which Inspector Tanner had experienced as to the truth of
Austin’s statement were short-lived. After a careful consideration of
the story, Austin was subjected to a most searching examination on
small details—such points and so many of them as no trio of
conspirators could possibly have foreseen and provided for. Cosgrove,
who made a statement similar to Austin’s, was also tested upon these
points, and his answers convinced the authorities that at last the
truth was known. At his request the false confession of blackmail,
signed ‘Edward Dale,’ was given up by Miss Belcher, to whom it had
been handed for safety. But what cleared the last shreds of doubt from
the minds of those concerned was the statement of Dale. Not only did
his testimony agree with that of the others, both generally and on the
small matters in question, but he went further than either of them. He
confessed fully that his action had been the cause of the tragedy,
stating, which neither of the others, had done, that he had actually
pushed Sir William back. He swore most positively he had no idea of
injuring the manufacturer, nor had he noticed the rope or thought
about the other’s tripping.

It was clear to the authorities that with any ordinary jury the
defence would win, and indeed, both Tanner, his Chief, and the Crown
Prosecutor themselves believed the explanation given by the three
prisoners. The case against Austin and Cosgrove was therefore
unconditionally withdrawn, and they were set at liberty.

Against Dale the matter was not so clear, a charge of manslaughter
being considered. At last, however, it was decided he could not be
proved guilty of this, his only punishable offence being blackmail.
But as Austin and Cosgrove resolutely refused to prosecute, the charge
was not proceeded with, and Dale also was set free. The cousins even
agreed to pay him the £320 a year he had been promised, though they
would not purchase for him the annuity.

All the cases thus collapsing, the Yard authorities did not consider
it necessary to make known the illegality of Sir William’s marriage,
and the secret was therefore preserved.

A few weeks, later two announcements were to be seen in the
fashionable papers. First came:

  ‘Ponson—Drew. Dec. 29, 1920, at St George’s, Hanover Square, by the
  Rev. Sydney Smallwood, cousin of the bride, Austin Herbert, son of
  the late Sir William Ponson of Luce Manor, Halford, to Lois Evelyn,
  eldest daughter of Arthur Drew, of Elm Cottage, Halford.’

Below it was another announcement:

  ‘Ponson—Belcher. Dec. 29, 1920 at St George’s, Hanover Square, by
  the Rev. Sydney Smallwood, Cosgrove Seaton, son of the late John
  Ponson of Oaklands, Gateshead, to Elizabeth Clare (Betty), youngest
  daughter of the late Rev. Stanford Belcher, of St Aiden’s Rectory,
  Nottingham.’

                               The End



Transcriber’s Notes

This transcription follows the text of the edition published by
HarperCollins in 2016, which is based on the original 1921 edition
published by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. The following alterations have
been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:

  * Seven missing quotation marks have been restored.
  * Three sentences terminated with a comma have been changed to end
    with a period.
  * Six further invalid commas have been deleted.
  * The word “Franklyins” has been corrected to “Franklyns” (Ch. III).
  * The words “un substantiated” have been corrected to
    “unsubstantiated” (Ch. V).
  * The phrase “fled him forward” has been corrected to “led him
    forward” (Ch. VI).
  * The word “aerodome” has been corrected to “aerodrome” (Ch. XII).
  * The word “Anstin” has been corrected to “Austin” (Ch. XV).